


To Build a Home For You

by SlightlyTwistedSilverware



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hydra (Marvel), I Will Go Down With This Ship, Inspired by Music, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, Red Room (Marvel), Slow Burn, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlightlyTwistedSilverware/pseuds/SlightlyTwistedSilverware
Summary: Natasha sacrificed everything to sponge the red from her ledger; home, family, herself... and yet - being back there, alive again, leading a life when she'd robbed so many others of the same - it still doesn't feel like enough.She is not cut out for this, she knows it. Her touch brings death, and deceit and manipulation are her only talents. She is the antithesis of everything this situation calls for her to be. But against her better judgement, she can't seem to stop herself..."I held on as tightly as you held on to me."
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Laura Barton & Natasha Romanov, Nick Fury & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 205
Kudos: 462





	1. There is a House Built Out of Stone

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a massive Marvel fan since I was a little girl watching The X Men on a Saturday morning, but I've just recently fallen in love with Romanogers as a pairing. Really, they were perfect for each other, and I'm certainly saddened by the way Natasha was treated in general in Endgame. She deserved so much more, and so did her fans after over a decade of loyalty. 
> 
> This idea hit me a few days ago and refused to leave me alone. It's largely inspired by the song called To Build a Home For You by The Cinematic Orchestra. I might take inspiration from other places for upcoming chapters. 
> 
> Each chapter will be of varying length, the burn will be S-L-O-W, and I have to warn you that I have no particular end in sight here, and no concrete plan at the moment. There's simply a jumble of scenes playing out in my head that I hope to be able to interconnect and put down on paper/ screen, if people like what they read here. If that sounds like fun to you then I hope you enjoy my little fic...

The call came at gone two in the morning when Nat and Steve were in the middle of a bottle of Beluga Noble and a particularly tense game of seven-card stud. As usual, Steve was losing miserably. 

It wasn’t unheard of for Fury to call with some sort of mission outside of office hours. That didn’t always mean that the remaining Avengers would be required to drop everything and suit up. It was more a reflection of the fact that the director’s memory was failing him in his advancing years. Consequently, he often preferred to call taskings in as they arose, meaning that both Nat and Steve were no stranger to late night tete-a-tetes with the boss. Had either of them actually acquired that ‘life’ they’d once discussed then they might have been a little pissed by it, however, no such miracle had occurred for either of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most faithful heroes. Steve had contemplated it once, back when he was returning the Infinity stones to the precise moments they had been pilfered from. It would have been so very easy to leave behind all the pain and fear and loss that had come hand in hand with the twenty-first century – to go back to the time that had birthed and then remade him; to seek out Peggy’s arms. The moment he had set foot on Vormir though, and discovered that he could exchange the Soul Stone for Natasha’s life, all thoughts of being anywhere other than at his best friend’s side were obliterated. There was no way he could have allowed Natasha to brave a changed reality alone, and so Steve had used the last of the Pym particles to return to the present with his teammate in his arms.

That had been nine months ago now and whilst physically Nat had completely recovered from the injuries she’d sustained as a consequence of her sacrifice, mentally it was a different story. The nightmares came thick and fast most evenings, and Steve had taken to sleeping in Wanda’s room across the corridor so that he’d be alerted to Nat’s distress as the first scream tore free from her lips. When she allowed, he would steal into her bed and hold her until dawn broke. In the harsh light of morning, they never discussed the horrors of the night. Instead, they danced around Nat’s mental fragility as though it wasn’t the elephant in the room, sucking out most of the oxygen. Steve was uncertain how long they could continue the charade but he was prepared to wait it out until Nat suggested their unspoken agreement was no longer working. He hoped that point would come sooner rather than later but he had a feeling it wouldn’t. Nat had never been one to admit defeat easily. 

By the time the call had disconnected, they’d learned that there was compelling intel. to suggest that former Red Room scientists were operating out of a Hydra funded lab in the Ukraine. Steve had kept his eyes trained on Natasha as Fury had divulged the details. He liked to think that he’d become somewhat of an expert at reading the Widow and her subtle tells. A less experienced agent might have missed the way the muscles in her neck tensed when the director hissed the name of her former tormentors, or how she’d folded her hands in her lap to hide her whitened knuckles when she’d learned they were experimenting with human DNA. Steve remained quiet and unmoving until the call ended, and Fury’s face disappeared from the holographic screen in front of them. 

After a breath and pause, in which he attempted to gather his courage, Steve spoke. 

“You don’t have to go, you know? I can handle this one with the strike team. Everybody would understand.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m weak, Rogers.” 

He hadn’t been at all surprised or offended by the hastily snapped retort. Well, perhaps a little offended, but he’d understood. If there was one thing Natasha loathed above all others, it was anyone perceiving her as less than invincible. One of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most highly trained psychiatrists had attempted to suggest this was a direct result of Nat’s inability to come to terms with her own recently tested mortality. She had promptly punched him in the face and he was still on sick leave to allow his nose to reset. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” replied Steve, an easy smile weaving across his lips. Nat seemed to respond better to that, doing her best to return the gesture. Had it not been for the dark circles staining the skin underneath her eyes and the constant ticking of a muscle in her cheek, Steve might have bought it. 

Neither one of them managed more than an hour of sleep before the agreed mission time rolled around. By 6 am, they were sitting side by side in the cockpit of the Quin jet, loaded up with coffee and weapons. Steve volunteered to pilot the jet and Nat acquiesced. At first Steve had wondered if she’d intended to get some more shuteye before they arrived in Grushevka. They certainly had plenty of time to spare given the fact they’d be in the air for almost half a day. However, he’d realised that wasn’t the case when Nat had drawn her knees up to her chest in preparation to spend the majority of the flight staring out of the windscreen. She seemed so hopelessly lost in her own thoughts that Steve wondered if she might require a map to find her way back to him. He refrained from comment. Instead, he made a point of passing by her chair often and touching his hand to the crown of her head. Nat never acknowledged the contact but nonetheless Steve knew she appreciated it. When he eventually gave in to the lure of sleep, Nat was still upright at the controls. An hour before their ETA, Steve’s eyelids fluttered open to discover that Natasha hadn’t budged an inch, and it had been a genuine struggle to cage his sadness.

It was a starless night when Steve landed the cloaked jet in the middle of a field, displacing a herd of cows who didn’t sound too impressed by the intrusion. Within minutes, another two jets touched down either side of them, and Nat was unbuckling her belt as though she hadn’t just spent a solid block of her day in a near catatonic state. Steve took a step back whilst she briefed the twelve man team Fury had loaned them, watching her intently for even the slightest signs of distress. Perhaps she fiddled with her Widow’s bites for a little longer than usual but, otherwise, Nat appeared almost perfectly poised. Before they set out on foot towards the underground bunker that was the target of their strike, Steve caught Natasha’s elbow in his fingers and gently turned her around. 

She met his concerned gaze with wide, emerald eyes, and Steve had to clear his throat in order to tug himself free of their depths. 

“I’ve got your six out there, okay?” he stated, suddenly overcome with the need to reassure his partner, whether she needed him to or not. 

“You always do, Captain.”

Steve watched her sashay away - her deftly sidestepping cowpats and rabbit holes, and he unable to shake the sense of unease that had saturated him like an August rainstorm. 

They broke through the entrance to the bunker with explosives and determination, killing a handful of guards instantly. Natasha was first to set foot in the warren of underground tunnels, refusing even to wait for the smoke to clear. Steve stayed close to her tail, his shield raised in preparation to defend them both should the need arise. Every single muscle in his body had snapped taut and filled with tension, but it was a feeling Steve had grown accustomed to. He paid the mild discomfort no mind as he navigated the stone walled corridors with Nat, whose breathing was a little on the shallow side for his liking. Subtly, he pressed himself into her back, allowing her to feel the steady, unhurried pace at which his own chest rose and fell. 

Several members of the strike team passed them, weapons hot, and neither of the Avengers protested. Their orders were to copy whatever files they found at the lab and then to raise the place to the ground. Fury had said nothing about the preferred fate of the Red Room and Hydra personnel, and, as honourable as Captain America had once prided himself on being, he knew he wouldn’t lose sleep if the rats went down with the ship. After all, these were the people who had made Natasha bleed. 

Agents Frinkley and Belgrade disappeared around a corner to begin clearing a path to the labs, and it wasn’t until a burst of rapid gunfire accompanied by shrieks echoed through the halls that Steve began to doubt their competency. Without exchanging a word, Black Widow and Captain America leapt into action. 

They rounded the corner using Steve’s shield to provide them with cover just in time to see an enemy soldier snap Frinkley’s neck, then slam his palm into the alarm panel on the wall before the corpse had even hit the floor. Nat fired a single round with deadly accuracy. The bullet lodged between the man’s eyes, felling his enormous body, but it was already too late; S.H.I.E.L.D.’s infiltration had been discovered and Nat knew their window of opportunity was slamming shut. These people were Red Room, trained to kill and die for the motherland, and there was nothing they wouldn’t do to uphold her secrets. 

“Steve, they’ll blow this place sky high. We don’t have long,” Natasha said, annoyance and desperation bleeding through into her voice. 

With a grim nod, Steve took the lead once more. Nat stayed a pace behind him, occasionally swivelling her body and her gun to point both at any doorway they passed. Most appeared to be locked and inconsequential. Together, the two progressed through the underground structure, doing their best to ignore the flashing lights and blaring sirens that threatened to compromise their entire mission. They dispatched a handful of guards on their way to the bowels of the facility, where Fury had promised they would find the laboratories that were of most interest to S.H.I.E.L.D. By the time they reached the relevant door, which was helpfully labelled in Russian, there were no less than fifteen bodies piled behind them and yet neither of the Avengers had broken a sweat. 

Stepping forwards, Nat pressed the key card she’d acquired from a scientist against the electronic lock. She’d felt guilty about shooting the woman when she’d detected the subtle swell of her abdomen beneath her white coat, and yet there’d been no other choice when the bitch had produced a knife from her pocket and attempted to embed it in Steve’s face. Pushing her regret aside for later, Nat stepped into the lab as soon as the doors opened with a soft shush that was drowned out by her pulse racing in her ears. 

Steve took in the scene before them quickly and with escalating horror; a trio of Hydra soldiers stood in the centre of the labs, surrounded by the bleeding and broken bodies of the scientists who had clearly worked there. Evidently, the organisations had decided to ensure that S.H.I.E.L.D. would not be bringing back any prisoners. One of the soldiers looked up as Nat and Steve entered, his face contorting with rage as he raised his gun and fired. The bullets went wide and embedded themselves in the computer console at Nat’s side, sending up a shower of sparks. Wasting no time, Steve flung his shield at the man like a Frisbee and it struck him in the forehead with enough force to leave a dent. The soldier dropped, and Steve and Nat readied themselves for a further onslaught from his comrades. Both were stunned when, instead, the remaining two men shoved the nozzles of their guns into their own mouths and pulled the triggers without hesitation. 

“Fuck,” Steve swore, raising an arm and swiping his shield from mid-air as it returned to him like a boomerang. 

“We didn’t need them, anyway,” Nat assured him, eyes sweeping the scene of devastation with practised detachment, “only the computer files.”

Nodding, Steve began to pick his way across the lab, doing his best to avoid the puddles of blood that eked out across the tiles. It was likely that someone had already set some sort of self-destruct system in place, and so they would need to move fast if they wanted to escape the bunker with their lives. Nat followed after the captain, her gun cocked in readiness whilst he inserted the memory stick into one of the computers and set to work downloading its content. Nat kept her eyes on the door, anticipating a second wave of soldiers, and so she almost missed the first whimper when it slipped into a gap between the alarm’s persistent wails. She froze and her back went rigid. When the second whimper reached her ears, Natasha spun around with all the grace of the ballerina she had trained to be, to confront the source of it. Her lips parted, twisted into an ‘o’ of surprise, and she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her when her gaze landed on the three children huddled together under a shelving unit. 

“Steve.”

His name tumbled out sounding strained and Steve’s eyes snapped up to her. Concern was painted across his features and it carved deep frown lines into his forehead. Tapping his arm, Natasha pointed. The captain just barely managed to bite back another curse. Nobody had told them there would be children. 

The two adults exchanged a look and almost instantly an unspoken decision passed between them; Steve would get the files, Natasha would get the children. 

Crouching low to the ground, Nat holstered her gun at her thigh and approached. Little faces streaked with tears and snot eyed her with a level of distrust that should have been beyond their understanding. The eldest child could have been no more than four and the youngest more likely just barely over a year old. The middle child – a boy, from what Natasha could tell - had his hands clamped over his ears to drown out the cacophony of the alarm bells and gunfire. There was nothing much Nat could do about either of those things, and so she instead affixed a gentle smile upon her face. 

“Hey there,” she cooed, sinking to her knees and attempting to block the aftermath of the earlier violence from view with her body. She had no doubt that the kids had witnessed the assassinations of the scientists and so there was no telling whether they’d be far too traumatised to even consider leaving the safety of their refuge. 

“It’s okay now, little ones. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe.”

Three sets of large, round eyes blinked back at her, almost confused, and Nat repeated the assurances in Russian, just in case. When she received no reaction either way, she barely managed to resist the urge to frown. Time was not on their side and she needed the kids to cooperate with a minimum of fuss because she was certain it would prove much harder to escape if she and Steve were attempting to wrestle a bunch of toddlers into submission. 

“Can you come out for me? Приезжать?”

Nobody moved, and Nat huffed a sigh that she wasn’t quite quick enough to contain. When one of the children flinched in response, as though expecting violence to come hand in hand with irritation, Nat felt sick to the pit of her stomach. Decision made, she slid all the way to the floor and extended an arm underneath the shelves, half expecting the kids to turn feral and begin attacking her in their terror. Much to her surprise, the youngest of the group shuffled towards her outstretched fingers and latched onto her wrist with tiny hands. Carefully and more slowly than she would have liked given their time constraints, Nat tugged the child into the open. The other two followed almost blindly, like sheep going over the edge of a mountain, clinging onto each other with a desperation that was heart-breaking to witness. 

Natasha murmured to the child that gripped onto her forearm then gathered the girl up against her chest. She was light, limbs bony instead of baby plump - the way they should have been - and Nat held onto her tighter with that horrific realisation. Whoever these children were, they were quite evidently malnourished and most definitely in shock. Anger flooded the Widow’s body – coursing through her veins until it saturated every inch of her – but she was careful to conceal it from her new charges, who shook and trembled whilst they peered up into her face. The boy and girl standing in front of her shared similarly delicate features, as well as a shock of silky, straw coloured hair, leading Nat to suspect that they might in fact be siblings. The child in her arms, however, looked far too dissimilar with her mane of fiery curls and freckled nose to have shared any DNA with the others. DNA, Nat recalled with a start. Fury had said that Hydra and the Red Room had been experimenting, and Natasha suddenly began to suspect that she had uncovered the most damning evidence against them. 

“Steve, a little help,” she called out, glancing at Captain America as he finished extracting the memory stick from the console. He paused to slide the drive into his left boot and then his attention was on his partner, who was clutching a tiny, pale faced girl to her breast as though both their lives depended on it. Give it a few minutes and they very well might, Steve thought sourly. 

The captain stowed his shield on his back and approached the other two children like one might approach a wounded animal caught in a snare; hands visible, pace measured, and expression neutral. The kids didn’t immediately turn tail and scurry back under the furniture, and so Steve continued towards them until he was able to draw level with Nat. He stopped by her side and waited patiently for further instruction, deciding it was probably for the best to follow her lead. He’d been vaguely aware of her muttering in Russian when he’d been working on extracting the files and so he had to presume that the kids didn’t speak English. He cut an intimidating enough figure as it was – all six foot two inches of sinewy muscle and power – without steaming towards them and hollering in a language they didn’t comprehend. 

“пойти с ним,” Natasha encouraged, her eyes on the boy and girl. Once again, just in case, she added in English with a note of vehemence, “Safe.”

Taking that as his cue, Steve stooped down and slowly, carefully, almost tenderly, scooped up both of the remaining hostages – one in each arm. Nat released a barely perceptible sigh of relief when they didn’t resist, and Steve shot her a smile as he straightened, now loaded down with precious cargo. They would need to move quickly and cautiously back through the maze of corridors that would lead them to the exit, and Steve would be helpless to respond to a threat with his hands quite literally full, but there was no alternative he could see. The whole facility was probably about to blow and there was no way in hell that either he or Romanoff would contemplate leaving babies behind. With a nod to signify he was ready, Steve allowed Nat to dash in front of him and back towards the lab door they’d entered. The child in Nat’s care tucked her head under the woman’s chin and her eyelids fluttered closed, almost as though she had recognised that she could trust this woman, and that everything would finally be okay in her little world. The sight filled Steve with resolve and he picked up the pace somewhat as he jogged down the hallways, seeking safety. Eventually, their path crossed with that of the remaining members of Fury’s strike team and Nat was able to holster her gun again, leaving their defence to those who weren’t weighed down by the products of the enemy’s latest experiments. 

They made it out of the door of the bunker with mere seconds to spare and Nat, who was bringing up the rear of the party at the time, was thrown clear off her feet by the force of the blast. She managed to lock her arms around the girl’s body then spin herself in mid-air so that when they hit the ground, it was her own back that bore the brunt of the impact. The wind was knocked out of her lungs but she was otherwise unharmed, and so Steve managed to tamp down the wave of panic that had nearly overwhelmed him at the sight of his friend sailing through the air. Silently passing the children off to another agent, Steve bent down to help Natasha to her feet, and she accepted his offered hand gladly.   
The little one was safe, still curled against Nat’s chest with a lock of the spy’s red hair wound around her thin fingers. It was almost difficult to tell where Nat’s tresses ended and the child’s began, the colours were so startlingly similar. Steve had expected her to offer the child to one of the other agents – perhaps Kendrick or Lopez, who both had families of their own – but, much to his surprise, she made no move to relinquish the kid. She walked the mile back to the Quin jets in silence at Steve’s side, one arm circled around the girl and her hand rubbing her back. Eventually, the child fell asleep, and her head lolled against Natasha’s shoulder as her lips parted to allow her snores to pass them. The image was a bizarre but not unpleasant one to Steve’s eyes, and he couldn’t help but notice how much more at peace Nat seemed with that warm, tiny body flush against her own. When they reached the jets and an unfamiliar agent stepped forwards to relieve her of the baby, Nat tensed for a moment as though she was poised to rebel against the request. However, she seemed to remember herself – and the fact that she and Steve would be returning to the newly rebuilt compound as opposed to HQ – and she handed the child over with a blank look on her face. Steve, who had come to know the Widow perhaps better than she even knew herself anymore, detected disappointment in the slight slump of her shoulders. 

As they buckled themselves in to their seats, side by side as always, Steve awarded Nat one of his most dazzling smiles.

“Well, all in all, that went well, I’d say.”

Nat nodded but it was evident to Steve that she was barely listening to him. Her top front teeth kneaded her bottom lip and there was a faraway look in her eyes that suggested her mind had once again spirited her away elsewhere. Perhaps, Steve considered, it was her proximity to the bastards who’d managed to keep the Red Room afloat that was bothering her. Or perhaps, he ventured, it was something else entirely. 

“You’re real good with kids.” 

It was intended as a compliment; something he’d remarked on before, when he’d been fortunate enough to catch glimpses of Auntie Nat playing with the Barton children or Morgan. 

Her eyes and voice were equally melancholy when she chose to reply a few moments later. “I guess I’ve had more practice than I ever thought I would.”

And there it was. 

Steve winced, finally realising exactly which dark alley Natasha’s thoughts had shepherded her down, and he mentally berated himself for not realising it sooner. There was nothing he could say to ease her pain, he knew, and yet he was overcome by the simple desire to be able to do so. Sensing his frustration, Nat reached across the narrow divide between them and laid her hand on Steve’s knee for the briefest of seconds. I'm fine, the gesture conveyed, no harm done. Then, the Black Widow fixed her stoic mask back in place and returned her hands to the controls of the jet. 

Just like that, all lingering traces of a decade’s worth of sorrow were gone, and Natasha was ready for action again; prepared to serve. It was the best she could hope for herself now, in the wake of everything the Red Room had robbed her of. 

Regardless, that would never stop Steve Rogers from wishing for so much more for her. He was, after all, the man who had wandered through time and space to bring her home.   
Sadly though, in Natasha’s experience wishes seldom came true.


	2. I've Got Scars By Great White Sharks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noble endeavours and missed opportunities?

An entire forty-eight hours passed without event before Fury called Natasha and Steve to HQ for debriefing. Right away the request struck Steve as odd. The mission had been a straight forward one, and a journey to New York would take them at least five hours by air. He was certain that nothing needed to be said that couldn’t be conveyed over Skype or else fit into the body of an email. However, Steve had learned over time not to question the director’s orders, no matter how ill thought out he perceived them to be. Not if he wanted his Christmas bonus, anyway. 

So, despite his reservations and mild annoyance, Steve packed an overnight bag and readied the jet whilst Natasha briefed Wanda on how to reheat the lasagne in the refrigerator using the microwave as opposed to her powers. The last time the young woman had been left alone at the compound, there’d been an unfortunate incident involving a frozen pizza, a misplaced bolt of quasi-psionic energy, and a $600 marble counter. Nobody was keen for a repeat of that fiasco, especially since HR had recouped the damages from their pay, and so Wanda’s kitchen privileges had been revoked. Usually, Steve, Nat, Bucky, and Sam shared the cooking on a rota system. However, whilst the Captain and the Widow would be heading off to rendezvous with Fury, the Winter Soldier and Falcon were engaged in a three week training exercise in Australia. Wanda would have the compound all to herself and, although Steve suspected she was probably looking forward to the peace, he could see the worry etched into Nat’s features along with her frown.

“She’s a big girl, she’ll be okay,” he said assuredly as the hangar doors opened out towards the heavens and the jet kicked to life. 

“I’m not worried,” Nat replied, too quickly for it to truly come off as unconcerned. “I know she’ll be fine.”

“Absolutely.”

“Totally.”

“Besides, the new sprinkler system is top of the line.”

Barely managing to conceal her smirk behind pursed lips, Nat swatted Steve in the chest and returned her attention to pre-flight checks. The captain settled back in his seat, content to watch whilst her fingers flew over the console with the ease of familiarity. Bright afternoon sunshine streamed into the jet through the windscreen, setting Natasha’s hair alight with vibrant colour. Something deep inside Steve urged him to reach forwards – to run his fingers through to the ends of her ponytail – but he managed to sit on his hands until the whim had passed. Lately their friendship had straddled the line between close and improper, and Steve knew that he had to take a step back if he hoped to prevent himself from making a terrible mistake. Romanoff had never expressed interest in him beyond that of an ally and brother. Sure, they’d flirted and teased, taunted and played, and danced around each other with the fluid precision born of a partnership forged in the heat of battle. But it had never been romantic. And even if it had, Steve was all too aware that Natasha was in no place mentally to start anything with anyone. It wouldn’t have been fair to her, and so Steve had resolved to fill only those roles necessary to Nat’s healing; that of friend and counsellor, but never lover. 

Steve shook himself free of his thoughts, determined not to allow disappointment to dog him all the way to New York. They passed the rest of the flight planning a celebration for Sam’s upcoming birthday and discussing their latest Netflix binge-watch. The conversation was light and easy, bringing frequent smiles to Steve’s lips and the absent twinkle back to Natasha’s eyes. When the jet touched down at HQ, Steve was almost reluctant to leave it, finding he’d enjoyed himself far too much in Nat’s company to want to tarnish his good mood with several hours in Fury’s presence. Seeming to sense his reticence, Natasha laced their fingers together and began tugging him along. Steve was forced to remind himself that the gesture meant nothing. At least, nothing beyond familial affection. 

They reached the top floor of the building to find Fury waiting for them outside his office, which was a curious occurrence in itself. Steve tried not to be offended when Nat tore her hand from his at the sight of their boss. He reminded himself of one of the first lessons she’d taught him – ‘public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable’ – and he understood the distance she implemented between them. 

The director stood next to his receptionist’s desk, which was in its usual state of disarray but strangely devoid of the receptionist herself. Steve liked Alma, who conjured memories of his mother with her neatly pinned grey curls, booming laugh, and keen wit. At almost sixty-three years old, she was nearing retirement age but had confided in the captain that she was holding off until S.H.I.E.L.D. took matters into their own hands and forced her out the proverbial door. She’d snorted with laughter when Steve had pressed her on the subject, declaring with imperious certainty, “Please, Captain. There’s no way on God’s green earth that one-eyed dolt could manage to pour milk on his cornflakes without me.”

As far as Steve could figure, that was probably true. Fury’s dedication to S.H.I.E.L.D. was unrivalled, and there was a very good reason that the couch in his office pulled out into a bed. Alma took on far more than any ordinary nine to five secretary should or would, and she was perhaps the sole reason that Fury remembered to change his underpants, file his taxes, and drink something other than coffee or whiskey. 

“Alma okay?” Romanoff demanded, apparently reading Steve’s thoughts as he scowled at the empty chair in concern. 

“Gave her the afternoon off. It’s better if we’re not interrupted.”

Steve and Natasha exchanged a loaded glance, the redhead arching a brow at the captain, who could only shrug in response. Nat was the first to trail into the office, where she settled herself into a chair, kicked off her baseball boots, and tucked her bare feet beneath her. For once, Fury didn’t pass comment, and Steve would later realise he should have viewed that as a further sign that something was awry. 

“It took the Science Division the best part of a day to sift through those files you grabbed,” Fury began, gaze ticking to Steve in acknowledgement, “that was some good work. Both of you.”

“You couldn’t have told us that over the phone?” Nat leaned forwards and balanced her elbows on her knees so that she could prop her chin in her hands. She fixed the director with a stare that could surely penetrate solid steel and Fury found himself fighting the urge to squirm beneath it. 

“I thought you should hear their findings in person, Agent Romanoff.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Nat sit up straight and unfold her legs. She set her feet down as though she suspected she might need them planted firmly on the ground to anchor herself against whatever was to come. Her palms slid across her knees and she wrapped her fingers around her thighs, gripping them as she scrutinised Fury’s face. She must not have liked what she found there because she sucked in a breath so sharply that it more resembled a gasp - as though she was choking on the air in the room, or else the secrets that permeated it. 

“This is about the Red Room, isn’t it?” Her voice was low and steady, yet her chin quivered in a way that clawed at Steve’s heart. 

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Director.” Steve managed to make the title sound like a warning, and Fury swivelled immediately so that his one good eye was trained on the captain. Expecting to find only irritation levelled at him, Steve was stunned to realise that it was instead uncertainty that rolled off the director in waves. 

“In their pursuit of the perfect soldier, Hydra and the Red Room decided to combine their efforts and resources to branch out into genetic engineering. The three children you found at the facility were the product of those experiments.”

“We’d already figured as much,” Steve supplied, grimly. His jaw set and he couldn’t seem to control the rage that started as a tingle in his toes before building into a white hot fire that surged through his body. Both Hydra and the Red Room had taken so much from so many over the years, and Steve was beginning to fear that nobody – not the Avengers, and certainly not S.H.I.E.L.D. – would be able to put an end to their sinister machinations. He had spent the majority of the hours following the mission consumed by thoughts of the children they’d rescued, and sickened by contemplations of the abuse they’d suffered at the hands of monsters. Even after battling alien hoards in the streets of the city, it was still people that Captain America feared most. 

“There’s more, Captain Rogers.”

Nat started to wriggle in her seat, uneasy anticipation eroding her usual calm, and Steve didn’t hesitate this time to shuffle his chair closer to her side. Fury must have noticed the move and yet he didn’t comment or so much as quirk a brow. 

“Go on,” the Widow encouraged when Fury’s silence had stretched on so long that it had begun to seem as if he’d never put them out of their misery. 

With a sigh, Fury’s eye fluttered closed, and he rested his hands on the desk in front of him. A pile of papers was disturbed and they scattered to the floor like enormous pieces of confetti, but nobody made a move to collect them. 

“Both organisations were in the practice of collecting tissue and DNA samples from their assets.”

“What kind of samples?”

“Hair, skin, teeth, sperm… ova…” Fury swallowed hard, his lips twisting as if the revelation left a particularly nasty taste in his mouth. “More than enough to begin carrying out trials in human cloning. Thankfully, those were unsuccessful.”

“Good, that’s… good,” mumbled Nat before pinching her lips together. 

“Once they realised they weren’t able to create copies of their most talented agents, they decided the next best thing was a process called DNA splicing. They combined specific genetic samples, removed any susceptibilities or less useful traits, and left the most desirable ones for their… specimens.”

“Could you break that down for the guy who literally slept through modern Biology?” Steve demanded. He rubbed at his forehead with the tips of his fingers, the same way he had done before the serum whenever he’d felt a migraine brewing. Such afflictions were almost a physical impossibility for him now and yet, for some reason he couldn’t identify, Fury’s words were like a band tightening around his skull. 

“They bred children,” Natasha supplied through clenched teeth.

“Like God-damn race horses,” confirmed Fury. “They wanted the strongest, brightest, fastest subjects they could get their hands on, and they wanted to be the ones to mould them, too.”

“‘Give me the child until he is seven and I will show you the man’,” whispered Nat, shaking her head slightly. She had a hard time deciding herself whether the gesture was one of despair, or simply an attempt to dispel the wretched memories of the Red Room that bubbled to the surface. She knew what it was to be someone’s pet project – their plaything – and she could only thank God that the kids they’d discovered were too young to have acquired quite the same collection of scars that she had. 

Fury remained uncharacteristically quiet, his hands tented in front of his face and his eyes downcast. Eventually, the silence must have proven too much for him because he cleared his throat loudly and turned his gaze upon Natasha. 

“I hate to ask you this, Agent Romanoff, but… you’ve mentioned before that, back in the Red Room, you were subject to certain… procedures…” 

The hesitancy in Fury’s tone set Steve on edge and he found himself scooting to the brink of his chair. He perched there, balanced precariously, to await Natasha’s reply. She possessed a near flawless ability to control her body’s reactions to mentions of past traumas; even those that Steve knew to have left deep impressions on every part of her person. Regardless of any discomfort she might have felt, Nat held her head high and tipped her chin upwards so that she looked more defiant than upset. 

“Go on.”

Swallowing his reservations, Fury continued, “Do you remember your han-… do you remember them collecting samples from you?”

The corner of Nat’s right eye twitched ever so slightly before she succeeded in locking down her emotions. She was careful to keep her hands slack in her lap and her shoulders pushed back, determined not to allow her mask to crumble in front of the director. Steve was certain Fury wouldn’t have minded – would have understood, even – but Nat had been conditioned since childhood to conceal even the subtlest weaknesses, and she wasn’t likely to stop now simply because her friends willed her to. It was a pet peeve of Clint’s and something he frequently tore into her for, especially given her tendency to hide injuries she sustained on missions. And yet, despite the team’s encouragement, Natasha had not made much progress in that area in the years they’d known her. Truth be told, Steve wasn’t so sure that she ever would; the need to be infallibly strong was ingrained into her every pore, after all. 

There were pieces of Natasha Romanoff that had been irreparably broken, and there were others that had merely been bent a little out of shape. Perhaps with enough time and patience, those parts could be salvaged and made good again, but Nat was not the easiest woman to work with in many respects. Still, to Steve at least, she was always worth the effort. 

“It’s hard to remember much when you’re unconscious and strapped to a gurney but I guess it makes sense with everything we’ve found. I take it my name featured somewhere in those records?”

“Quite extensively,” Fury assented with a nod and Nat pursed her lips in response, beginning to drum her fingertips on her knee. 

She almost looked casual, with one arm slung over the back of her chair and the other tapping out a rhythm against her leg. Her poise made it seem as though she might have been discussing the weather or how she took her coffee, as opposed to the illegal harvesting of her own DNA. Steve wasn’t sure whether to admire her for it or to be horrified. He didn’t know of anyone other than Romanoff who could convincingly play off such a violation as ‘no big deal’, and he regularly consorted with Asgardian gods. 

“Well, I can’t say I’m thrilled about it but I take it any samples were destroyed in the explosion?”

There was a pregnant pause and Fury shot a glance at Steve that set something in his chest fluttering in panic. He couldn’t explain it, nor did he want to, but he was suddenly as flustered as he had been the time he’d busted a sixteen year old Bucky trying to spy on the girls’ changing room through a hole in the bathroom wall. 

“Not all of them.”

Eyes narrowing, Natasha crossed her arms over her chest. The gesture would have seemed defensive on anyone else but, on the Black Widow, it served only to convey anger. 

“Explain, Nick,” she barked, and Steve winced at the abrasive edge to her tone. It was sharp enough to cut glass. If Fury wasn’t careful, he’d bleed out on his own desk before the debrief was through. 

“I’m not really sure if there’s a delicate way to put this, Romanoff, so I’m just going to come right out and say it; before they sterilised you, the Red Room harvested your eggs and froze them.”

There were those at S.H.I.E.L.D. who would swear that Natasha Alianovna Romanoff was the best damn spy to walk the planet; calculating, methodical, and brilliant – in short, everything an agent should strive to be and then some. Locker room legend professed the woman could outmatch and outgun any enemy, even bring a giant to his knees only to force him to beg for her mercy like a stray begs for table scraps. Steve had heard it all, witnessed half of it, and believed most of it, and yet none of that changed one very important fact he'd learned some time ago; at her core, Natasha was only human. 

Fists clenching, she slid to the floor and landed on her knees before Steve could make it out of his seat to ease her landing. Her body made a dull thud when it hit the ground, and the ornaments and trinkets on the shelves that surrounded the room all wobbled precariously in their places, displaced by the vibrations of her impact. Steve wrapped an arm around her shoulder and Nat allowed it, her face crumpling as a sob burst from her mouth. 

“Are… do they… are they still…” 

She didn’t know how she managed to speak around her own tongue, which suddenly felt as though it had swelled to twice its normal size. She had to peel it from her palate, where it had stuck fast, and it took Natasha a moment longer than usual to work out that was because her mouth had gone completely dry. 

She had thought her chances gone – stolen from her before she was even old enough to comprehend what it meant. The people who had spirited her away from the cradle had made certain that she would never rock one of her own, and in the absence of hope she’d come to terms with the cruelty of it. Sometimes, she had dreams of long, feathery lashes and dimpled cheeks, a boy who called her ‘mama’ and snuggled sweetly into her neck, but that was all they had ever been; just dreams. 

“I’ve personally compiled all of the information in a report, for your eyes only, and I think…” Fury began, only to trail off when Nat’s watery gaze flashed up to meet his. 

“Just tell me,” she hissed, drawing a breath before she added more gently, “please.”

If she was sure of only one thing it was that she couldn’t stand another moment in the dark. Not when there was a tantalising shaft of light almost within reach. Steve’s embrace tightened, preparing her for the worst, but for once Captain America’s shield could do nothing to shelter her. 

“Maybe you’d like to step outside for a moment, Rogers? Get some air?” Fury suggested, arching the brow over his good eye, and Steve at once made as though to stand. However, before he could venture far, Natasha’s hand shot out and seized his elbow, trapping him in place. 

“There’s nothing you can’t say in front of him.”

Fury looked unconvinced but he’d known Romanoff long enough that he didn’t consider protesting. 

“They gathered thirteen eggs from you in 2005 before you graduated the Red Room. Nine of those were viable. They were kept on ice until 2010, when they used four in the later stages of Project Artemis. After that failed, they turned their hand to genetic engineering instead. They implanted three fertilised eggs into a volunteer surrogate and she conceived twins that didn’t make it past nine weeks gestation...”

Natasha was hanging on Fury’s every word, mouth agape and chest heaving as she clung to Steve’s forearm for support. Thirteen, she thought wryly, unlucky for some, and unlucky for me. The last two eggs would have perished in the lab explosion and, with bitter disappointment flooding the hollows of her bones, Nat’s only regret was that she had found out about the situation at all. Some things were perhaps better left buried. 

Swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, Natasha climbed to her feet, ignoring the way her knees trembled, threatening to drag her back down to the carpet. Steve moved with her, hovering as he was prone to do. He kept one palm pressed into the small of her back but she barely felt the pressure of it; the heavy weight of fresh grief on her chest eclipsed every other sensation. 

“Okay, well,” Nat murmured on the tail end of a shaky breath, “I’ll have a full mission report on your desk by tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not necessary,” Fury protested, “if you’d just sit back down, I…”

It was clear that she was fighting an internal battle to hold herself together just a while longer, until she could escape the room and the concerned stares levelled at her - to retreat to the bunk she’d be using for the night and scream her sorrows into her pillow. 

“I’m sorry about… that… That was embarrassing. Won’t happen again.”

“Romanoff, I…” Fury attempted to protest, only to be cut off by the babbling agent once more. 

“I shouldn’t need further access to the lab reports and I…”

“Natasha!” 

Her name came out as a bellow and she actually startled, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly. 

“Would you shut your damn mouth for five seconds and let me finish?” the director snapped, although Steve could tell he was trying his best to rein in his annoyance. Fury evolved into a different creature in the company of Natasha; one that was somehow softer and more sympathetic, if not frequently even more frustrated than usual. 

Without a word of protest, Nat bobbed her head and returned to the chair in front of the desk. This time, Steve took up a position behind her like a sentry, his fingers squeezing the headrest as if he was using it to keep himself upright.

“The final two eggs were fertilised and then implanted into a Hydra scientist by the name of Dr. Lillian Fischer. Only one of them took. That was in 2022.”

Natasha visibly balked, eyes flashing closed for a split second. When she opened them again, fixing them on Fury’s face, something almost dangerous sparked within them. 

“What are you saying, Nick?”

Silence dominated the office. When Fury located his voice, his words emerged sounding clipped and awkward. 

“Dr. Fischer died in December that year. Bled out giving birth to a baby girl in a Red Room facility. You have a daughter, Romanoff.”

A tangled mess of crimson hair. A slightly upturned nose dusted with freckles. A pale face peering up at her through the most enormous eyes she had ever seen.   
All of these things flashed through Natasha’s mind – slides changing on a projector - casting her back to a mission and a lab in a faraway place where the air was so cold that it hurt to breathe it. And before Fury even said it, she knew. 

“We ran tests on those kids you rescued. The siblings have been turned over to CPS already. Both parents were marked as deceased in the records and that checked out. The other kid…”

Fury stopped, waiting for the Widow to waver or else fold completely beneath the burden of the truth he’d left half excavated. Somehow though, Natasha didn’t flinch.

“Say it. I want to hear it.”

A hushed sigh teased the quiet but Nat was so far gone that she couldn’t recall now who had breathed it. There was only the moment, the chaotic thrumming of her heart, and a sense of realisation that paralysed her. 

Finally, Fury obliged. 

“She’s yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is borrowed from the song 'Bridges' by Aisha Badru. It's a really beautiful song and very pertinent to this fic. No copyright infringement is intended with the use of this song, or by the existence of this story. I do not own this universe, these characters, etc. I'm just really sad that Nat didn't make it in canon :-(
> 
> Thank you to WelshWitch1011 for trying to talk me through the finer points of genetic engineering and cloning so I didn't have to rely solely on half-baked nonsense from Dr. Google. 
> 
> Again, thank you for reading.


	3. Goodbye Baby, I Hope Your Heart's Not Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha plans for the future. Steve tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is borrowed from the Fleetwood Mac song 'Goodbye Baby'. If you know that song then you also know you might need a tissue...

Mine.

Natasha had tested the weight of the word on her tongue. It felt alien and peculiar, perhaps because she had never actually had cause to use it before; there was precious little in the world that truly belonged to her alone. In the Red Room the girls had shared everything from clothes to toothbrushes to weapons to men. Nothing sacred or personal had been permitted for fear they might develop ideas above their station. It wouldn’t do to covet that which the regime was unwilling to offer. 

Whilst defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. had secured more autonomy and freedom, and provided Natasha with the means to build a life, she continued to struggle with the concept of ownership. She perhaps always would. Having been bought and sold like a cow at market had stripped her of even the slightest tendency towards acquisitiveness.

For almost an hour, Nat stood in front of the mirror in her en suite, staring her reflection down, and repeating the four words that had the power to change her life forever, if she’d only allow them to.

“I have a daughter.”

Outwardly, she knew she looked no different than she had done earlier when she’d strolled into Fury’s office, expecting everything but the truth. Inwardly, it was a different story entirely. Where once her mind had been an ocean of calm, now her thoughts unwound and tangled together like too many balls of yarn - and there was nothing she could do to restore any semblance of order to them. 

She’d considered calling Clint, who had once been her go-to-guy in situations that required more emotional depth than Natasha felt herself capable of. However, she’d dismissed the thought when she’d realised the Bartons were spending the week at their lakeside cabin. Clint would never allow himself to be completely unreachable, of course - especially given past experiences with global catastrophe - but he would certainly be preoccupied. The Barton family had always lived life in the moment but lately they had developed a habit of cramming as much activity into a day as was humanly possible, almost as if they were afraid that each sunset might prove to be their last. Nat supposed that was an understandable concern; a consequence of not only having an Avenger for a father, but of living in a world that was still reeling from the Mad Titan’s temporary victory. 

Clint had recently confided in her that Laura and Cooper were in therapy twice a week, trying to come to terms with their five year absence from the planet in the same way many of ‘the returned’ were. Nate was thankfully too young to understand much about what had happened, and his already sparse memories of that day were fading gradually. Every time Natasha visited she was sure to bring him a new set of Legos, just to expedite the process a little more. Lila, on the other hand, was a different story entirely. Since Thanos, the girl had grown increasingly sullen, morose, and detached - changing in ways that frightened both her parents and her surrogate aunt more than they’d care to admit. Nat and Clint suspected she was suffering from a form of PTSD - both intimately familiar with the symptoms - but they were at a loss as to how to help her when she refused any professional intervention. 

Nat knew that the week at the cabin was largely for Lila’s benefit, and she would rather stick a thousand pins in both of her eyes than wrench Clint away from his family when he was so sorely needed. She nixed the idea, and told herself firmly that she would clean up the Red Room’s mess the same way she always had; alone. 

Nat rinsed the last traces of emotion from her face with a palm full of cold water, and turned away from the mirror. She had allowed herself a few moments of human weakness but that would serve no purpose when it came to achieving her objective. Without the kind of clarity that came from compartmentalisation, Nat would be lost, and so she had learned how to box up those things she no longer desired to feel. She could do that now, she reasoned. She could. 

When she entered the hall outside her room, she was surprised to find Steve sitting with his knees curled into his chest and his back against the wall. His head shot up when her door opened, and he fixed her with a smile that was tense and devoid of its characteristic buoyancy. A quip died on Nat’s lips, seeming inappropriate given the new circumstances, and she instead offered Steve her hand so that she could help him to his feet. He moved awkwardly, as though both legs had stopped working, and she found herself wondering how long he’d been camped outside her quarter, waiting to be needed. The idea kindled a pleasant warmth in the pit of Natasha’s stomach, but she was too engrossed in more pressing matters to pay it much attention. Perhaps some other time.

“Thought maybe you could use some company,” Steve said, the tips of his ears flushing an endearing shade of pink as he added, “but then I thought maybe you wanted to be left alone. Sitting in the hall was a compromise.”

She couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled up from her chest, as light and airy as a hummingbird taking flight. That was the effect Steve had on her – even in her darkest moments, so it seemed. 

“Come on, Rogers. Grab a drink with me?”

Steve acquiesced with a nod, falling into step at Nat’s side, and they walked the corridors of the HQ accommodation section in silence. Nat could tell that he was trying to get a read on her, though. He wasn’t nearly as subtle as he ought to have been, with his stolen glances that lasted a fraction of a second too long, or with the way his breathing hitched occasionally as though he’d contemplated speaking then thought better of it. Natasha knew that she was an unpredictable beast by nature and reputation, yet she realised that she didn’t want Steve to view her that way. He was an open book around her – had been from the split second she’d gained his trust – and clearly she had him at a disadvantage. Finally, (perhaps with a note of selfish longing for something more than she was entitled to), Natasha resolved to bring him in from the cold. 

“I’m not going to get completely wasted, if that’s what you’re worrying your pretty, little head about.”

Steve’s eyes flashed to her face, surprise evident from the way his pupils had blown wide. Nat shook her head, the ghost of a smile flirting with her lips. 

“Just one drink. I think they called it ‘Dutch courage’ back in your day.”

“The English did,” Steve agreed with a hum and a smirk. 

He said nothing else after, simply remained at her side until they reached the bar on the basement level, which was a fairly recent addition to HQ that Nat wholeheartedly approved of. She knew Fury had been thinking solely of his own late-night whiskey cravings when he’d given it the go-ahead but still she was grateful, especially now when she didn’t want to set a foot off base until it was done. 

They ordered their drinks – Steve insisting on paying, as a gentleman always should – and settled into a quiet corner booth together to nurse them. It was reminiscent of a Saturday night back at home, when they’d stay up late, trading memories, and sinking shots at one of the dining tables in the compound. Wanda, Sam and Bucky often joined them but it was usually only Nat and Steve that survived to see sunrise. Sometimes, they’d take their glasses and their stories to the roof, lying back against the flat concrete with their fingers barely touching whilst they watched the sky explode with warm amber hues and streaks of red that stretched like veins behind the clouds. Nat treasured those moments, to heights that she couldn’t find words to describe, yet suddenly not even the reminder of them could coax a genuine smile to her lips. 

“So, I’m wondering,” Steve began, clearing his throat and then taking a sip of his drink, “if you need – well, not need – I know you don’t ‘need’ me… but if you’d… like? If you’d like me to come with you… to see her, I mean.”

Natasha managed to hide most of her face behind her glass, drawing a deep pull from it that she didn’t really want, but which she swallowed down slowly anyway. After a few moments had passed - agonisingly so for Steve - she set the glass back on a coaster and stared him straight in the eyes. 

“I’m not going to see her.”

“What?” 

Steve faltered, his hand twitching and upsetting his tumbler so that it careered off the table. His superhuman reflexes kicked in in the nick of time, and he plucked the glass from the air before it could shatter on the floor. When he placed it on the table again, Nat was still staring, her eyes narrowed to slits that seemed to communicate she was somehow unhappy with his reaction. 

“But I thought you said… ‘Dutch courage’…” he reminded her, his expression so adorably confused that Nat couldn’t manage to fan the flames of her own anger a second longer. Trouble was, she knew that when she allowed the fury to melt away, she would be left with something else entirely in its place; something that would only serve to make her seem vulnerable to the rest of the world. 

“I don’t think I should see her,” she explained. She aimed to sound casual, as though she was discussing brands of fabric softener and not secret biological children, but she couldn’t seem to keep her right knee from trembling wildly. It was an unfortunate tell, which instantly cast her back to the Red Room and the harsh lash of the leather belt that an agent had once used to beat it out of her. Apparently, he hadn’t been nearly as successful as they’d all thought. 

Nat took another drink and, for the first time in her life, found that she despised the burn of Russian vodka on her tongue. She pushed her glass aside, the gesture a resolute one that didn’t go unnoticed by Steve. 

“I don’t understand, Tasha,” he murmured, and she almost flinched at the pet name, which she hadn’t heard in quite some time. Not since he’d discovered her broken body at the foot of a cliff in the depths of space, and whispered it feverishly into her hair. She wasn’t sure if Steve had known she was clinging onto consciousness at that point, but maybe one day she would be able to tell him that she had appreciated the kisses he’d pressed to her cheeks and swollen eyelids, after so many days lost in the solitude of Vormir. 

“It’s pretty simple. I texted Fury and asked him to have papers drafted. I’m relinquishing my parental rights, as soon as possible.”

Natasha looked away, gaze ticking to the bar, to the floor, to the maudlin watercolours that hung above the tables, just so she didn’t have to look back at Steve. She knew what she’d find in the downward quirk of his lips, and she couldn’t face that yet. 

“Why?”

The question came out on a breath, sounding so genuine to Nat’s ears that, for a second, she truly was heartbroken by Steve Rogers’ innocence. Especially when it came to her. He was perhaps the only man in the world who hadn’t seized the opportunity she’d presented years ago and read her file. She knew he viewed it as an invasion of her privacy, even though she was the one who had enabled it. However, Nat had come to the conclusion that you could take the man out of the 1940s but you couldn’t take the 1940s out of the man. It was one of the many qualities that set Steve apart from them all. Made him infinitely better. 

“I am the last person on this planet that deserves to raise a child, Steve.”

Her tone was harsher than she’d intended but Steve didn’t flinch or shy away. He was used to her penchant for self-loathing and, after over a decade of being friends, he could handle her anger with as much skill as he wielded his shield. 

Instead, Steve pinned her with the intensity of his crystalline eyes and she glared in return like his judgement meant nothing to her. It did. He could never comprehend just how much, in fact. 

“That’s bull and you know it, Romanoff.”

He employed his no-nonsense ‘Captain America’ voice and, with a smirk flickering across her lips, Natasha met his disapproval with a mock salute and a wink. She threw the former up without care, hoping to rile him with her intentional sloppiness; Steve was nothing if not a stickler for tradition and detail. However, he seemed to realise that she was baiting her trap and at once his shoulders dropped, and his expression softened. Nat considered reaching for her glass again to down the remaining contents but Steve, perceiving the move, batted the tumbler out of reach. 

“That kid has had a horrendous start in life. She doesn’t need a cluster-fuck like me making the next sixteen years as crappy as her first sixteen months.”

She had intended to say more but the lump that rose in Nat’s throat had taken her by surprise, and she fell mute in case any further attempts at speech ended in an embarrassing sob. 

“You’re her mother, Nat.”

She felt the tears prickle the corners of her eyes but she blinked them back, slow and controlled, the way she’d learned in the Red Room. If you cried in front of Madam then she would give you something to truly cry about. 

“I’m not,” Natasha said, far more desolate than she’d intended, “not really, Steve. Sure, she’s got my DNA in her but… I didn’t carry her, I didn’t give birth to her, and… I don’t love her.”

Steve started but whether that was because the statement sounded harsh to his ears or simply didn’t ring true, Nat had no way of telling. She couldn’t help it when her mind wandered, drew her into contemplating the woman who had brought her daughter into the world, and died for the privilege; the woman whose heartbeat had served as the child’s very first lullaby, but who had been unable to comprehend the beauty in that. 

There hadn’t been much about Dr. Fischer in Fury’s files, aside from the quite obvious assertion that she had been loyal to Hydra for many years. In the doctor’s eyes, the baby had been nothing more than a science experiment, and her own womb a sort of petri dish from which to observe it. Reading that had almost been enough to unpick the very last stitches of Natasha’s precious and already tenuous sanity. 

Motherhood was a gift that she was destined never to receive and, whilst she told herself that was for the best – assassins with stained hands didn’t deserve such things – she would always view it as a sacred concept. She had often watched Laura with her children and, whether caressing a swollen belly or standing barefoot in the kitchen to ice a birthday cake at midnight, she played her part with unflinching love and dedication. Those were two qualities in short supply in Natasha’s world when she had met the Bartons and so they had immediately captivated her. Nat had studied Clint’s wife intently as she interacted with her brood and, in the end, she had been deeply affected by her observations. Natasha had learned, and witnessed, and mourned, the absence of everything that should have been present in her own childhood; and, come to realise that this was one role that no training she had received could ever equip her for. It was something strange and perfect all at once, simultaneously a miracle and a curse, which could not be mimicked or aped or simulated, and yet those were all the things Nat did best. And so, in watching Laura Barton flourish as a mother – the kind that any child would be fortunate to have - Natasha Romanoff discovered all the reasons as to why she should never be one herself. Yes, she had dreams about a child of her own, but she also had many, many nightmares, and those had a tendency to linger long after dawn. 

Now, Nat told herself that what she felt - the hollow pain in her stomach, and the tightness in her chest - were simply echoes of feelings she had already put to bed. And then she silenced them with a noisy slurp of vodka from the glass she managed to wrestle out of Steve’s hand. 

Eventually, Steve spoke again, his tone more sure than Nat would have thought possible.

“Two of those things are true. We both know that kid needs you, Nat. She’s going to be hunted by Hydra and the Red Room for the rest of her life, and who could protect her better than you?”

Natasha’s grip tightened around the empty glass. She watched as her own fingers whitened with the intensity of her hold, but it took her some time to muster the courage to reply.

“What if I just hurt her more?”

The vulnerability in her voice sparked a look of sincere understanding in Steve’s eyes, and he had reached forwards to rest both of his hands on Natasha’s arm before he could stop himself. She didn’t consent to look up, her gaze locked on the lipstick impression she’d left on the glass, but Steve knew she was waiting for his response. 

“You would never, ever hurt her. I would bet my life on it.”

Natasha did look up then, surprised; not by Steve’s conviction of belief in her, but rather by his choice of words. They both knew perhaps more than anyone that a life was a precious thing indeed to barter with. Usually, there were no second chances when it came to death, and yet Captain America had seen to it that the Black Widow had received one. It was not just a testament to how truly remarkable he was as a man, but also to the depth of the feelings he harboured for the red-headed assassin that had managed to fight, quip, and charm her way into his heart. 

Of course, Steve would never recognise the ugly, scarred parts of her; the ones that had made her so certain that her life had been a fair price to pay for not only that of Clint Barton and Hawkeye, but for Ronin as well. His blade may have been drenched with blood but such a thing was incomparable to the bogeyman they had called Natalia Romanova. 

“Not on purpose. But I’m the Black Widow. I’m a murderer, not Suzy Homemaker. I can’t be a mother. Not the kind she deserves.”

“You can,” Steve replied in earnest, not missing a beat, “you’re just scared, and I get that. I’d be terrified, too. But you won’t be alone… not if you don’t want to be.”

This time, Natasha was unable to dispel the tears, and they trickled down her cheeks completely unchecked as she peered into Steve’s face. She found only honesty and affection reflected back at her, as she had expected. Another crack snaked across her already fractured heart, and Nat barely managed to withdraw her arm from his gentle grasp without gasping aloud in physical pain. She stumbled to her feet and quickly sunk her hands into her pockets, effectively preventing Steve from latching onto her again. Confused, Steve leaned back in his seat, watching with a guarded yet hopeful expression, as though he assumed the situation could end in anything other than misery. 

He was so good; too good for the likes of her, and she wouldn’t allow anyone - least of all him - to be dragged down into the toxic mire that was her life. 

Shaking her head sadly, Natasha whispered, “I’m sorry, Steve.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away; head bowed, shoulders slumped, heart irreparably broken.


	4. Though You Have Been Broken, Your Innocence Stolen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's demons resurface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of child abuse, and strong violence. 
> 
> Нет! Остановить! = No! Stop!

She hadn’t meant to lie to Steve. 

Truly, she’d had no intention of getting drunk that night when they’d first set out to the bar together. In Nat’s experience, there wasn’t a single problem that had ever been solved by drinking too much. Besides which, she found she hated the way the buzz of excess alcohol in her veins blunted her senses, making her feel more vulnerable. The Red Room had sometimes plied the girls with liquor prior to missions – those requiring a state of emotional detachment beyond their years - and that had torn a deep gully in Natasha’s psyche. She had come to associate getting drunk with being stripped of the most basic right to autonomy, as opposed to the standard propensity to drunk dial an ex and vomit in a taxi. That wasn’t to say that she didn’t enjoy a drink, (or have a stash of spirits back at the compound), but she had learned how to gauge her body’s limits. Usually, she would stop two rounds shy of them, with the slightly slurred protests of her former sisters echoing in her ears as a warning.

However, by the time Natasha had stormed back to her room it was an entirely different story, and her resolve had crumbled. Rather, it had been decimated; much like a high-rise under the assault of an earthquake. One that clocked a healthy 8 on the Richter scale. 

She wanted to be numb, and three quarters of a bottle of something expensive and tart on the tongue was the only way she knew of to achieve that. Usually, she preferred vodka or martinis, even red wine, but her options were somewhat limited considering she didn’t have the time or inclination to leave HQ. She certainly wasn’t prepared to double back to the bar and risk running into Steve again, so instead she made the trek to the top floor via the private stairwell and jimmied the lock on Fury’s door. She re-emerged minutes later with two bottles of Captain Morgan’s spiced and a somewhat apologetic grin, which she aimed at the camera in the corner of the reception. It had taken her less than thirty seconds to override the alarm, and so she at least had the decency to scrawl her critique of the system on a memo pad before she escaped with the haul. 

Natasha had managed to gulp down over a third of one bottle before she made it back to her room. She slammed the door behind her with her foot and then paused to lock it, although she didn’t bother to turn on the lights, preferring the sanctity of the shadows. Collapsing on the bed, she sucked down the cure to her inner turmoil and waited for blissful apathy to replace it. The room started to grow fuzzy around the edges of her vision but Nat took that as a good sign, refusing to tug the bottle neck from her mouth even when sticky liquid trickled down her chin. Eventually though, she was forced to tear her lips away with a gasp. To her dismay, she realised that the only thing that had been significantly affected by the rum was her stomach. It sloshed and rolled from the sudden influx of too much liquid, and Nat set down the bottle until the queasy sensation passed. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and she didn’t feel like spending the rest of the night with her head in the toilet bowl. Pacing herself suddenly seemed a wise move. 

Natasha flopped back against the S.H.I.E.L.D. issue pillows that were too firm to be comfortable, and allowed her eyes to close. She would rest for a moment, she decided; until her belly calmed and the ache in her heart subsided. Unfortunately, she couldn’t quite stave off the exhaustion that was causing her body to feel like it was made of a dozen bags of wet sand. Within minutes, she was unconscious. Dragged down into the farthest depths of slumber by a combination of heightened emotions and the contents of Fury’s top desk drawer. 

It was not uncommon for Nat to long for dreamless sleep, but now more than ever she craved the respite of simple darkness behind her shuttered lids. However, life rarely worked out the way she hoped for it to, and Natasha instead came to find her subconscious-self ensconced within familiar walls. 

The room was mirrored on three sides, with large windows that had been wrenched open to welcome the wicked winter wind. Occasionally, flurries of snow danced past the sashes, whirling and wheeling in the air just as the figure of the little girl did as she swept across the dance floor. Her posture was near perfect, her back straight and long, and her arms held with inherited elegance at angles to the floor. She wore a tutu with a ruffled skirt that rightfully should have looked adorable, if it weren’t for the crimson splatters that stained the bodice. 

A series of pirouettes transitioned into extended fourth position, and then abruptly the child froze. With her eyes fixed straight ahead, she schooled her expression into one of careful neutrality, refusing to allow even her own breathing to jostle her form. Her body became as still and rigid as stone, almost like a statue, although there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes that ruined the illusion. 

At first, Natasha had thought that she was looking at a version of herself; perhaps a younger reflection of the terrified orphan who had been shaped into a murderer. However, when Madame B materialised by her elbow, she suddenly knew better. 

“Magnificent, isn’t she, Natalia?”

Her voice was exactly how Natasha remembered it; a soft purr filled with the promise of destruction and so much pain. Dream-Nat closed her eyes against the onslaught of fear it evoked but then Madame was laughing and clapping her hands, and she couldn’t help but look at the source of the monster’s amusement; the girl was sobbing, folded onto the floor with her face hidden in her palms and the crown of her russet head bobbing with the effort. Natasha set out to go to her, overcome by the desire to gather the child into her arms, but Madame’s fingers snagged her sleeve. She couldn’t move, though she wanted to, and could only watch instead as a figure dressed in a Hydra uniform stalked across the dance floor with a baton drawn. 

“Нет! Остановить!” The pleas tumbled out in her native tongue but Natasha was certain that wasn’t the reason they went unheeded. 

She had begged many times as a girl; please, no more, I’ll be good, I’ll be better, I can be faster, I won’t be stupid. It had never worked. Usually, it had earned her a few more lashes, an extra couple of bruises, a night locked in the cells. When she’d hit puberty, and her blooming curves and pretty eyes had drawn attention, it had gotten her something much worse. But those days were over, Natasha reminded herself, and the Black Widow didn’t beg anymore. 

She tried to sweep out a leg, determined to break Madame’s grip and knock her off her feet in the process. However, the woman was gone before Nat could execute the move, only to reappear a moment later on her other side. This time, she didn’t reach out to Natasha, but held her in place with a single look that was as powerful as any blow the Widow had ever been dealt in battle. 

“You were the best, once,” Madame said. A lament. 

Her gaze ticked to the girl, who had ceased crying and was looking up at the soldier through wet eyes. The expression she wore was expectant, resigned, and she made no move to escape. The children of the Red Room rarely did; most were quick to learn that the concept of salvation was a futile one. 

“Let her go. She’s just a baby. We were all just babies.”

Natasha wasn’t sure how she found her voice but she wasn’t particularly glad for the development. She winced at her own summation of the past and forced herself to glare back at Madame. The woman had robbed her of more than her innocence, and Natasha loathed her with every, single, last shred of self. Although logic reminded her that it was all a dream, that Madame was nothing more than dust and bones now, she couldn’t seem to tamp down the fury clouding her vision. 

“You were all weak,” Madame retorted, her tone cutting. “I made you strong. I made you, Natalia.”

A shudder that had nothing at all to do with the snowflakes gathering on the floorboards rippled through Natasha, and she stumbled backwards. There was an insidious and unsettling note of truth in Madame’s words – one that Nat couldn’t deny no matter how much she wished she could. She had indeed been forged in the fires of the Red Room. Whilst she might have accepted that fact years ago, she was still repulsed by it. Until Clint and S.H.I.E.L.D. she had been many things, thanks to Madame’s heavy handed brand of ‘guidance’; killer, weapon, seductress, victim, but never merely a child. Perhaps - despite the innumerable names crossed off in her ledger, and the scores of bodies beneath her feet - that was the true crime. 

“But now I am gone, and you… you are no longer the magnificent predator I taught you to be.”

It was a spiteful and accusatory claim but it had no effect on Natasha. The hardest battle she had ever fought was the one with herself; the gruelling internal war that had made her a better person – one she finally felt was at least partially deserving of the oxygen she breathed into her lungs. She would find no shame in railing against the Red Room’s lessons. 

“I wonder,” Madame finally continued, her head cocked as she appraised Natasha, “what you will become next?”

“Mama…”

Sound burst from the child’s lips, a voice so small and sweet, and Nat couldn’t help it when her head whipped around to allow her to gaze at her daughter. She was much older now than the toddler carried from the lab - at least eight or nine - yet Natasha easily recognised that determined chin, and the milky complexion that was peppered lightly with freckles. She didn’t hesitate to reach out a hand to the girl, who stretched her arm to mirror the gesture, seemingly without thinking. Before Nat could cry out a warning, the Hydra thug brought his baton down and the girl released an agonised yell that rattled the window frames. Snarling, Natasha started forwards, intent on exorcising the full extent of her wrath on the masked soldier. However, her feet appeared rooted to the floor, where the toes of her boots were beginning to disappear under a forming snow drift. She grunted and growled as she worked to free herself, but her struggles were to no avail; all she could do was stare in horror as the soldier raised the weapon and struck again. The dull thwack of metal hitting meat was sickening, and Natasha’s shriek was perhaps louder than her daughter’s this time. 

“Leave her alone! Get the hell away from her! You hear me? Stand down!”

Making no move to acknowledge the woman, the soldier wielded the baton, which gleamed in the fading sunlight as it sliced through the air - over and over and over. Each blow connected, stripping skin from muscle and flesh from bone until the tutu was stained with so much blood that its original colour was lost to all but memory. Nat didn’t attempt to count the number of strikes dealt, but she raged and screeched and fought against her invisible bonds with a ferocity that left her voice hoarse and her pulse pounding in her temples. As the assault continued and her petite body crumpled, the child screamed for her mother. Until, suddenly, Natasha’s daughter screamed no more - and the Widow knew that it was over. 

With bile rising in the back of her throat and tears tracking down her cheeks, Natasha sank to her knees to fist the snow. The soldier stood like a sentry, evidently fearing no recourse, but Nat’s eyes were fixed on something else entirely – an altogether more terrible sight, now.

“Oh Natalia,” Madame B. clucked, voice laden with false sympathy, eyes sparkling with mirth, “look at the mess you have made.”

Her body was so light that it barely made an indent in the snow. The puddle of crimson leaking across the powdery, white ground carried enough weight alone, however. Natasha let out a gasp that morphed into a sob at the last second. When her hands came up to cover her mouth, they were inexplicably stained red. 

“If only you hadn’t been so stubborn,” murmured Madame. Her lips brushed the shell of Natasha’s ear and she shuddered, repulsed by the proximity of the woman. 

Leaning in further, so that Nat’s nostrils were flooded with the scent of the grave and the thick cloy of iron, Madame hissed, “Time to wake up, Natasha.”

She came to with hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her without mercy, and Nat couldn’t help her that her instincts instructed her to lash out. She did so blindly, eyes screwed closed against the horror of her nightmare, but her fist connected with a jaw regardless and she was soon released. 

“Natasha! Wake up!” Steve yelped as he stumbled away from the bed, nursing his rapidly bruising jaw with the palm of one hand. 

Natasha’s eyes sprang open and she scurried back against the headboard in an instant, panting and gasping as though she had gone ten rounds in the ring with the Hulk. She surveyed Steve through wide, wild eyes and in an instant any last tinge of annoyance he might have harboured towards her faded. She looked like hell or, more specifically, like she’d been through it. Steve didn’t doubt that was a strong possibility. After all, he knew enough of her past to realise that her own mind was perhaps the most terrifying prison she might ever be held within. Lately, he would venture into her room at the compound at all hours of the night to coax her out of dark dreams of Thanos and Vormir, but he suspected this was something else entirely. The haunted look she bestowed upon him promised as much. 

“I couldn’t sleep. Came by to talk. I heard you screaming from down the hall,” he explained, averting his gaze to allow her a few moments to collect herself. He was stunned when she didn’t move an inch, continuing to hug the wall and draw uneven breaths. Usually, she was embarrassed by fear – worked doubly hard to conceal it, even – and so the fact that she seemed so consumed by it that she couldn’t attempt to hide it was concerning to say the least. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Steve soothed, his features softening. 

He approached with caution but, when Nat made no move to shoo him away, he perched on the mattress by her side. Cocking his head to survey her better in the darkness, he extended a hand. Natasha recoiled before his fingers managed to graze her bare shoulder but Steve knew not to take it personally. As strong as she wanted everyone to perceive her to be, Nat could be fragile beneath the surface, where it often mattered most. 

“Do you want me to go?”

Although her breathing didn’t slow, Natasha shook her head vehemently; she wanted – no, needed – him to stay, if only to watch her fall apart. She knew from experience that he could do that. It was putting her back together again that proved to be the more difficult task. Steve was always game to try, though. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Steve, after minutes of steady silence had passed and Natasha seemed to have relaxed. Back in the days of the tower, she had refused to disclose the contents of her nightmares to anyone, even Clint. However, after Ultron, the snap, Thanos, and a dozen other missions that had left their mental scars, Nat trusted Steve enough to bring down her walls. Of course, she was often still mortified to do so but she allowed him in, nonetheless. This time, though, Nat perceived Steve to be against her, and he was certain that wouldn’t work in his favour. So, when she tossed her head, signalling a definite ‘no’, he was a little sad yet hardly surprised. 

“Can I get you anything?” he offered, with the gentlest smile he could muster. 

For several moments, unmoving and unblinking, Nat seemed to evaluate Steve. Her eyes swept over him, noting his posture, his expression, the slight upward curve of his lips, and drinking it all in for careful contemplation. After a while, she seemed to arrive at a decision. Although, from the way her hand trembled as she held it out to the captain, it was not without some difficulty. 

“Would you come you with me?”

Her voice cracked somewhere in the middle and her chin wobbled, threatening tears. Regardless, she was still the strongest person Steve had ever met, even though he had grappled with a Titan. 

“Of course I will,” he agreed, working hard to keep the vaguely hopeful note from his voice, “anything you need. Always.”

Lips twitching into a barely-there smile, Nat bobbed her head in acceptance and made a move to scoot away from the wall. Surprise must have registered on Steve’s face because the Widow glared at him in the next instant as though she expected she might have to call him out on a lie. 

“If it’s too much trouble then I can go alone.” 

She had hoped for a matter-of-fact tone but she had fallen short. Instead, she had come off abrasive and angry, despite the fact it wasn’t Steve who deserved to be subject to her temper. 

“No, no!” he protested, leaping to his feet to demonstrate his willingness. “I thought maybe you meant in the morning or something. But I’m still coming. If you want me to?”

Natasha didn’t have it in her to offer more than a nod, and she was somewhat sluggishly pulling on her sneakers before Steve had registered what she was doing. Her movements were slightly off and her fingers slipped clumsily over her laces a few times, but Steve didn’t have to be a genius with a Tony Stark level IQ to work out why. The smell of alcohol permeated the entire room, and alongside a full bottle of rum sat a second, almost empty one that Steve suspected had satiated the Widow and her demons. When they left her quarter, he made sure to stay by her side, one hand at the base of her back to not only guide her but also catch her if she should stumble. 

For the longest time they said nothing, maintaining a silence that was too fraught with tension to be considered companionable. Eventually, when they reached the elevator and stepped inside, Natasha forced herself to look at Steve, who was doing his best to bite his tongue, it seemed. She knew he must be full of questions – she would have been herself had the roles been reversed – but the differences between the Black Widow and Captain America were stark and profound; whilst she was inquisitive and impatient where secrets were concerned, he was empathetic and compassionate enough to realise that seeking the truth was not synonymous with being worthy of it. 

“You’re wondering why I changed my mind.”

Her voice jolted him out of some unknown reverie, and Steve’s eyes flashed to Nat’s face almost guiltily. He must have been contemplating her reasons, then. The idea elicited a tired but amused smile from her, and she reached out to take Steve’s hand in her own. She was aware that her skin would feel clammy and too hot to the touch, but such things didn’t matter between them. They knew each other practically inside out, warts and all, and when he had dug a bullet out of her thigh and mopped someone else’s blood from her cheek, a sweaty palm hardly seemed like a big deal. 

Steve’s fingers interwove with hers, and Nat couldn’t help but smooth her thumb over the callous on the side of his pointer finger. It had been created by the strap on his shield, and was as familiar to Natasha as any groove or scar that marred her own skin. They held hands perhaps a little too frequently for friends, but their relationship was one that had transcended the boundaries of what might be considered ‘normal’ long ago. 

“I guess I am,” he confessed with a shrug. He squeezed Nat’s hand twice but didn’t release it, knowing she craved the intimacy of a caring touch - even if she hadn’t realised as much herself. 

“I haven’t. Not completely,” whispered Nat, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. In her mind’s eye, there flashed an image of an ivory tutu saturated with blood. “I wouldn’t be good for her, Steve, and I don’t want to hurt her…. Or to be the cause of her getting hurt. I just - I think I should say goodbye.”

Steve blew out a breath from between his teeth, taking a few seconds to gather himself before he consented to nod at Natasha. He might not agree with her but he would support her. 

“I wish I understood better, Tasha, I really do,” he murmured, unable to help himself from reaching out and brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. She melted into his touch, eyes closing briefly. 

“You don’t have to understand just… be here? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

It wasn’t a plea, and both God and Steve knew that Natasha was more than strong and resourceful enough to carry through her plan without anyone’s support. She simply didn’t want to. Despite the fact Steve was certain she was throwing away her chance at happiness, and that he could hardly bear to stand by whilst she did so, he also could never leave her alone again. Not after Vormir. The weight of her unconscious body in his arms was still too fresh in his mind. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. 

Although she didn’t really brighten at his words, her slumped shoulders lifted slightly, and she seemed able to meet his gaze with more ease; without flickers of guilt and sadness crashing across her features to devastate her stoic mask. 

“Thank you,” she breathed. 

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal the corridor to the medical wing, where the child would be observed and housed until arrangements had been finalised. After she signed the papers Fury had seen drawn up, her daughter would be transferred to the care of CPS; her daughter no more. 

That didn’t mean that Natasha would forget. As sure as the sun rose in the east, that child’s delicate features and tiny hands would be imprinted on her heart and mind until the day she drew her final breath. Maybe in another time, another place, another life, she could have played the mother her daughter so sorely needed, but this was not it. 

Together, the Captain and the Widow walked down the corridor, both trying their best not to allow their armour to crack. It would be the hardest thing that Natasha ever had to do, she knew; she who had stopped hearts with her bare hands, and dug the graves of her Red Room comrades at Madame’s command. It seemed ludicrous that she could be completely undone by the scrawl of a single signature in a box and yet stranger things had happened, she supposed. 

Squaring her shoulders for battle, Natasha pushed through the door at the end of the corridor, grateful beyond measure when Steve linked their hands once more. She was certain she looked a state – hair in disarray, eyes red rimmed, and trembling from her bender – but none of that really mattered. She was here only to say goodbye; nothing more, nothing less. 

And her daughter, too young and innocent to possibly comprehend, would never remember this moment. Somehow, that only made it harder.


	5. I Have Nothing Left and All I Feel Is This Cruel Wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha tries her best to say goodbye.

They had called her Anya.

Those people who had stolen her away, tainted her innocence, warped her future. 

Natasha loathed the name. In English it meant ‘He has favoured me’. The idea was ludicrous and, whilst ‘Anya’s’ kidnappers might not have been religious, they certainly had a sense of humour, it seemed. Nat would hardly call being born into a Red Room/ Hydra funded initiative a fortunate turn of events, let alone a blessing. To never know the warmth of a mother’s touch, the comforting smell of home, or the reassurance of a father’s embrace. This had been Natasha’s reality too, and she longed for more for her child with such ferocity that she ached down to her core with it. 

Without question, she could not be the one to give those things to her. However, as Nat peered through the window of the private room, watching the figure curled up in the crib as she slept with a thumb hooked in her mouth, she couldn’t help but wonder. Had she been the one to carry her daughter - to experience the wonder of gentle nudges in her womb and to brim with the excitement of the promise of new life – what name would she have bestowed upon her? A name was a parent’s first gift to their child and the Red Room had stolen that too. 

As if reading her mind, Steve spoke from her side. He gripped Anya’s file in a clenched fist, having become too enraged to continue skimming through it when he had picked out the words ‘severe malnourishment’ and ‘several healed hairline fractures’. It was no easy feat for a child so young to break a bone. 

“I don’t think she looks much like an ‘Anya’,” he murmured. He succeeded in drawing Nat’s gaze for the first time since they had been escorted to the room by the duty nurse. 

“I hate it,” Nat confessed, unable to keep her eyes from drifting right back to the child. Even with a trail of drool streaking her chin and her curls a tangled mass atop her head, she was the most perfect sight. 

“Change it.”

Natasha’s head whipped around and she glared at Steve through narrowed eyes, as though she was highly suspicious of his intent - which she was. 

“She isn’t mine to name,” she reminded him, pointedly, fingers drumming on her hip. 

The captain turned back to peer through the window with a beaming smile that could only be described as enraptured. Nat could identify, although she wouldn’t admit it. 

“I’ve always liked Elizabeth for a girl.” He spoke the name on a breath, which misted the glass in front of him. Firmly, Natasha shook her head. 

“Naming her would only make this harder. Besides, the fewer links she has to me, the better.”

From the sigh that escaped Steve, it was clear he had yet to accept Natasha’s decision, but he had vowed not to challenge her over it. When the Black Widow made up her mind about something, there was usually no talking her out of it, anyway. Steve suspected it was not only her determination at play but also her pride. 

“Edith is pretty,” he continued. Although he had heard Natasha’s protests loud and clear, the urge to contemplate the ‘maybes’ and ‘what ifs’ this child had brought into her life – their lives – was too great to resist. 

Snorting, Natasha couldn’t help but scoff, “Old lady name. So I guess that’s why you like it.”

His grin slid easily into place. He was used to her teasing him about his age, had even come to miss it during the time she had been lost to him, and so he allowed the comment to slide without retort. 

“Okay. What about Barbara?” Spurred on by Natasha’s wrinkled nose and obvious disgust, he pressed, “Veronica? Agnes? I think I read somewhere that ‘Prudence’ could be making a comeback.”

Unable to hold back her laughter a second longer, Nat snorted at her partner. He was pleased by her response, she could tell - delighted to have rekindled the light in her eyes if only for a second. 

“Don’t you think she’s suffered enough?” 

Steve couldn’t help but join Nat in her amusement. He bumped her shoulder and she aimed an elbow at his ribs before they both turned back to the window, their smiles fading in perfect, sorrowful unison. Silence fell around them and Natasha’s thoughts turned dark once more. 

“Rose.”

Startled, Nat’s grip on the window ledge increased so much that her thumbnail snapped clean off at the quick. She hardly flinched at the sudden stab of pain. When she turned to stare up at Steve, a strange, almost unsettling look spread across her features. 

“What did you say?” she demanded, softly, quietly. 

“Rose,” he repeated. His lips caressed the name like it might be the lifeline that could perhaps save them; protect Natasha from the sure-fire heartache headed her way, and secure Anya the safe, loving home she deserved. Nat continued to peer at him, blinking back the moisture that had pooled in the corners of her eyes. He longed to stretch out a hand, press it to the back of her neck, and draw her into the warmth of his body. A million promises he couldn’t hope to keep sprang to the forefront of his mind, but Steve could never be cruel enough to fill someone with false hope. Especially not her. 

“That’s kind of beautiful,” Natasha admitted, and she turned her back on Steve whilst she worked at scrubbing fresh tears from her cheeks. 

Steve allowed her time to gather her thoughts before he jerked his thumb in the direction of the door, which they had yet to set foot through. The path that would lead Natasha to her daughter. Understanding, she took a noisy breath that was more of a rasp and then bobbed her head in agreement. She couldn’t put it off any longer and drawing out the inevitable would only make things more difficult. It hurt less to rip the band-aid off fast. 

They entered the room and the baby didn’t stir, merely shifted ever so slightly in her crib. Natasha noted that she slept with her right arm raised above her head, and she could only hope that it was not a force of habit with a sinister origin. The sound of metal handcuffs clinking against the bed frame as she tossed and turned on her mattress was one of Nat’s most dominant memories. She consoled herself with the fact that she had spared her daughter the same. Instead, she hoped that Anya would grow to recall bedtime fairy tales read by her daddy, and a mommy who would sing her lullabies to chase away her fears, no matter the time of day or night. 

Settling herself into the chair beside the crib, Natasha propped her elbows on her knees and leaned forward, an eagerness about her movements. They would have precious little time together and she wished to spend the seconds drinking in the image of her baby. After all, she would never be fortunate enough to do so again after this moment.   
Steve stood at her side, a silent yet calming presence. He too seemed to be staring at Anya, his features scrunched into a grin that served to conceal the despondency that filled the hollows of his bones. He shot a glance at Nat, whose mask wasn’t faring quite so well. 

“Fury will make sure she’s okay.” 

He shocked even himself with the affirmation, but the expression on Natasha’s face had forced him out of inaction. She looked devastated, gutted, bereft - a thousand other negative things that she neither deserved nor could be shielded from. 

“She’ll grow up safe,” he continued. Perhaps it was partially for his own benefit, for he found that he too longed only for good things for this child, who had surprised them all with her existence. 

Natasha nodded but didn’t reply. With a hesitance that she had never displayed before, she reached out a hand and slipped it through the bars of the crib. Her fingers hovered in the air above the child’s arm for several, long seconds before she reached down to cover Anya’s hand with her own. Perhaps sensing her mother was close, the girl breathed a sigh in her sleep. 

Almost with a gulp, Steve added, “She will grow up loved.”

Her eyes slammed closed and Natasha brushed her thumb across her daughter’s dainty wrist. She would memorise everything about her; the softness of her skin, the milky-sweet scent that clung to the breaths she puffed out from between her lips, the way the light caused her auburn hair to glow like a halo of flame around her head. 

“She already is,” she breathed. Steve had been right to challenge her on that particular lie. 

Scrubbing his palm over his jaw, the captain grit his teeth, near the verge of desperation. He only stared at Natasha and, sensing his attention, she turned to intercept his gaze, her own steely and unwavering. She was not ashamed of her decision, he could tell, but neither was she content with it. It was simply necessary. Her hand moved from Anya’s wrist and settled on her forehead, where her thumb began to stroke the slope of her brow. 

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Nat,” he all but pleaded, aware that his voice had adopted a desperate quality that would hold no sway over the Widow. 

“It does,” she countered, continuing her ministrations. Her lips quivered in vague threat of a smile but the gravity of the situation soon put paid to even the slightest sliver of her joy. And this moment should have been filled with so much joy. However, Natasha had long deduced that she and, by extension, her life were cursed, and true happiness would forever allude her. 

Steve felt his temper simmering beneath the surface and so, before he could say something he might later regret, he forced the frustration from his body on the tail end of a groan. He hadn’t come to fight with Nat or to rally against a decision that was hers alone to make. He just couldn’t stand to see her in such agony. She had already endured so much – more than most others could survive – and he had hoped that with her resurrection would begin a new, more promising chapter of her life. If truth be told, he was rather keen to be a part of that, if she would allow him. 

“What about her… father?” 

Steve managed to choke out the question despite the lump that had risen in his throat. He had delayed asking for as long as he could, uncertain and partially afraid of the answer. They were talking about Hydra and the Red Room, and so, without doubt, whoever had contributed the other fifty percent of Anya’s DNA would not be the type of man Natasha would have chosen to father a child. The potential for causing further upset was vast, but Nat would not reveal anything that she wasn’t comfortable with him knowing. 

“Dead.”

The reply filled Steve with immeasurable relief; a dead man could tell no tales and cause no problems. Once Nat let her go, Anya could be truly safe, even though Steve was confident there was a better way. 

“He was Hydra. One of their best, according to the file.”

“Russian?”

“American, actually.”

Although intrigued, Steve didn’t push further, instead waiting for Natasha to fill in the blanks of her own volition. Logically, the fewer people that were aware of Anya’s lineage and past, the easier it would be to hide her. However, Steve should have realised that, in the Black Widow’s view, he could be trusted with even the most sacred information. 

“His name was Roger Brokeridge. A domestic terrorist, of sorts. Powered person, Hydra lackey, and all around scumbag. They marked him in the file as a ‘willing participant’ in the project. He profited handsomely from providing his samples.”

Steve swallowed his anger down with the bile that burned the back of his throat. He had always been of the view that to be a parent was a privilege, and yet there were those who apparently were willing to sell that honour to the highest bidder; doom their own flesh and blood to a life of servitude and cruelty in the process. It was unfathomable. 

“He let this happen?” Steve couldn’t seem to iron out the tremble in his voice, which was filled with such contempt that Natasha turned to peer at him, an almost wistful smile upon her face.

“He did,” she murmured, returning rapt attention to Anya before she added, “not every man is like you, Steve. If they were, my life might have gone a different way.”

Embarrassment and the slightest twinge of pride flushed his skin red from the nape of his neck to the apples of his cheeks. For a while, Steve remained mute, chewing over the information and watching whilst Natasha fussed her slumbering child. It was all so unfair. 

“You said her fa… Brokeridge was a powered person?” Steve queried. An idea rose in his mind and he latched onto it like a hungry dog with a bone.

“I did, and I know what you’re thinking,” she said, shifting in her seat. “Brokeridge wasn’t born with powers. He received them from a drug he obtained from an unknown source.”

“What did this drug do to him, exactly?”

“All the usual perks; enhanced endurance, strength, and speed. Plus the handy ability to fling balls of energy capable of decapitating people.”

Steve winced, considering the implications of such a power being replicated, and in an innocent, unknowing child to boot. 

“A lot of information in the files was redacted by the scientists but - from what our people can tell – the Red Room insisted on editing out the potential for passing on his more unique abilities. They must have figured it would only make Anya harder to control.”

Whilst Steve knew that, given the nature of her biological father’s skill set, it was for the best that Anya would not develop such powers, he couldn’t help the disappointment that bathed him. In one final, desperate attempt, he had planned on highlighting Anya’s potential superhuman status as a reason for Nat to maintain guardianship over her. After all, who would be better equipped than the Black Widow and the Avengers to guide the girl as she grew? With the ace up his sleeve exposed and discarded, there was nothing else Steve could say or do to persuade Natasha that she was poised to make the biggest mistake of her life. There was nothing left but resignation, weighing on the pit of his stomach and making him feel nauseous. 

“So I guess that’s it, then,” Steve said, unable to keep his eyes from ticking to the child’s face. She really did look so much like her mother that it was hard to believe that Hydra had failed in their initial cloning attempts. 

“I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it,” Nat paused, licking her lips before she continued, “but there is no other way here, Steve. No matter how much we both wish there was. Can you just… can you at least accept that? For her? For me?”

Her words worked their way effortlessly beneath his skin, chipping away at his disappointment and sadness until Natasha’s desperation was all that cocooned him instead. He would do anything for her, so long as it was within his power. 

Eventually, with a slow nod, Steve murmured, “I’ll do my best to try.”

Natasha would have to be content with that much, she knew. Steve Rogers really did have the purest heart she had ever encountered and watching her suffer had him yearning for a way to make it all better. Sometimes though, not even Captain America could save everyone. 

The sound of nurses quietly laughing and the wheels of the drug cart turning filtered in to the room from the chink beneath the door. Steve picked up a chair from where it had been abandoned in a corner and moved it into position at the opposite side of the crib. Through the gaps in the bars, he watched as a watery smile flitted across Natasha’s lips. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, awarding Steve a look filled with gratitude he didn’t deserve. He had done nothing, after all; save for agree to give up. 

The two Avengers lost track of the hour as they maintained their mostly silent vigil. Eventually, light started to seep across the floor, spilling in from a broken slat in the blinds. By the time it had reached the leg of the crib, ushering away the shadow that stained the tiles, Natasha was preparing to leave. She intended to be gone before the baby woke for breakfast. It would be worse for her should she catch sight of those mossy green eyes again. They had been filled with such intelligence and longing. It was an assault that the Black Widow’s already tattered heart couldn’t bear a second time. 

They had made it as far as the door together, Steve’s arm encircling her waist, when a noise from behind stopped them both in their tracks. The hair on the nape of Natasha’s neck stood on end and Steve gasped, his hand falling from where it had rested on the curve of her hip. Neither dared turn back, already knowing instinctively what they would see if they did; no doubt, a curious, eager, little face pushed up between the bars. 

Natasha could hardly breathe and her vision distorted until the ground was rising to meet her. She threw out a hand to steady herself, her palm landing on the door frame and her fingers curling around the wood for dear life. Over her shoulder, there came the faint rustling of a diaper and the squeak of a mattress. Then, a voice; one she had heard in her nightmares, but never in the peaceful serenity of a typical Friday morning. 

“вверх! вверх! Нво!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> вверх! вверх! Нво = Up! Up! Now!
> 
> The title of this chapter is taken from the Evanescence song 'Lost in Paradise', which is a pretty perfect song for Natasha. I borrowed Roger Brokeridge from elsewhere in the MCU. You can look him up, if you feel inclined, but he won't be too important right now. The name Rose is taken from the Black Widow comic 'The Name of the Rose'. Rather than follow that path, I thought it would be nice for Steve to suggest the name, giving it a happier connotation. Plus, it's my daughter's middle name so I may have been swayed. 
> 
> All errors are my own. Thank you for reading.


	6. If I Threw It All Away, Would I Still Have You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha signs the papers. Has she made the right choice?

A nurse bustled into the room wearing a plastic apron and a sunny smile. If she was at all surprised to find Captain America and the Black Widow loitering near the doorway, practically frozen, then she didn’t show it. Instead, she breezed straight over to the crib housing her patient, who was hopping from one foot to the other in a display of agitation. The baby whined and Steve wheeled round in an instant, frantic with the need to ensure her safety. He found Anya glaring at the nurse with a distrustful pout. Her tiny brow had furrowed in a manner so reminiscent of Natasha that it was amusing to behold. 

“She’s an early riser,” the woman observed, possibly only to fill the void of silence that dominated the room. However, when Anya began to inch away from the side of the crib on her unsteady legs, Steve wasn’t so sure the nurse had noticed. 

She crossed to the window in a few strides and set to work twisting the cord to lift the blinds. Stealing a glance at his watch, Steve was shocked to find that it was scarcely past five. Babies were supposed to need lots of sleep, weren’t they?

Natasha - who had yet to acknowledge her daughter in waking - faltered in her rigid stance until she was leaning almost completely against the wall. She looked like she might topple over at any moment and, whilst Steve ordinarily wouldn’t have hesitated to go to her, his concern had been piqued by Anya’s reaction to the nurse. Although he was aware that he should really be cajoling Natasha out of the room, in accordance with her own wishes, his heart was under assault from a pair of huge, green eyes iridescent with tears. 

“Shall we get you a fresh diaper? Maybe see if we can find some breakfast, huh, pumpkin?” 

The woman babbled on, oblivious to Anya’s distress, which swelled to a crescendo when the nurse snapped on the pair of gloves she produced from her pocket. The child recoiled as though she had been slapped, slamming her too-fragile body into the bars at the top end of the crib. There was a thud when her back struck the metal, hard enough to bruise, and then Natasha did move, whirling to confront the nurse with a growl tearing from her. Steve was sure she scarcely looked so fierce on the battlefield. Colour drained from the nurse’s face, leeching from her cheeks and neck as fear consumed her. 

“Do not touch her,” snarled Natasha, and Steve found himself reaching out a hand towards her, demanding her restraint. 

Hands quivering and pupils blown, the nurse seemed both alarmed by and uncertain of her transgression. Steve couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for her; she was obviously inexperienced, fresh from nursing school, and he doubted she’d had the chance yet to grow accustomed to not only S.H.I.E.L.D.’s deadliest agents but also their prickliest. 

Anya collapsed on her rear and worked to press herself into the corner of the crib as snugly as she could. Steve noted the tremble affecting her limbs from across the room and, for a second, he thought he might actually vomit. It was clear the kid was terrified beyond reasoning and he mentally berated himself for not having expected it. Of course she would be afraid – alone and vulnerable, as she was – surrounded by a sea of clinical uniforms and equipment that must have cast her mind back to the hell they had plucked her from. It was entirely possible, he realised, that she believed she was still there; that this woman was simply the latest in a long line of strangers come to inflict some form of torment upon her. 

“I’m sorry, I…” the nurse stammered, shaking, as she regarded Natasha. “I didn’t mean to… I…”

The Widow didn’t flinch. Coolly, she raised her arm and pointed to the door. 

“Out,” she barked, everything about her suddenly sharp and unwelcoming. Steve didn’t blame the nurse when she turned tail and fled without casting a glance back at the baby, who was watching Nat with curiosity and a hint of recognition. 

No sooner had the door swished shut than Natasha’s entire demeanour shifted. Her lips relaxed into a smile that was both tentative and fragile, and she remained otherwise perfectly still as she brought her right hand up to hover above her chest. 

“безопасного,” she murmured – a word that Steve recognised yet could not decipher. 

He had tried to master Russian by listening to Nat and Bucky bicker back at the compound, but the intricacies of the language evaded him and he’d never managed to retain more than a few words. Whatever Natasha had said, however, it appeared to have the desired effect, and Anya gripped hold of the bars above her head to haul herself to her feet. Her eyes never wavered from Nat’s face, and Steve could only wonder at what the little girl saw there; kindness, comfort, a saviour? 

“What do you want to do?” 

Steve spoke quietly from his position at her side, watching Anya whilst she stumbled about the crib. She reminded the captain of Sam when he’d had a few beers too many. A chuckle escaped Steve, despite the situation, and he shot a glance at Natasha to check if she had noticed. She was far too transfixed by her daughter to care, it appeared. Without a word, she took a step forward until she was a hair’s breadth away from the crib. Anya gazed up at the woman; not as sceptical as she had been of the one who was clad in scrubs and wreaked of antiseptic. 

“Good morning, детка,” she cooed, sounding so very un-Romanoff-like that Steve had to work hard to keep his mouth from falling open. 

Of course, he had witnessed the emergence of her softer side before - on missions when she tended to the wounded and distressed, or whenever she interacted with Clint’s kids. However, he hadn’t realised that it had been quite so long since he last had. Since Vormir she had been increasingly withdrawn and guarded, and her smiles were not as ready as they used to be. 

“вверх.”

Anya repeated her solemn instruction but, this time, she held her arms aloft in a universal gesture that Steve recognised immediately.

“She wants you,” he breathed out, amazed and hopeful all at once. 

Lips flirting with a smirk, Natasha nodded her agreement and bent down to scoop the child up into her arms. Anya came willingly and with eagerness, and all the air left Steve’s lungs in a rush as the baby settled her head on her mother’s shoulder. Without invitation, Anya reached for Natasha’s braid and busied herself toying with the end of it. The scene was thoroughly domestic, and as comfortable as if it had played out a hundred times before. 

“We should see about some breakfast and a diaper change,” Nat said, eyes roving the room for supplies as she planned. 

“Yeah… I guess… I uh… I’ll go ask the nurses.”

The captain wandered from the room with a sense of bewilderment draped over his mind and body. It was as though a switch had been flipped within Natasha and, in the time it had taken for her heart to pound a beat, she had embraced the child as though she might never be willing to let her go. Steve knew he should have been happy at the development, elated even, no matter how unexpected it was. However, he had known Nat for a decade, and that was more than long enough to realise that something didn’t add up. She didn’t change her mind on a whim, especially not when she believed that she was right. And she had seemed so very sure about what she was giving up. 

There was no sign of the young nurse at the desk but Steve managed to find someone else without too much trouble. The woman shoved a stash of diapers and wipes into his hands, along with an overripe banana, and urged him away in apparent annoyance. 

“We don’t have time this morning. There’s three GSW’s coming in and two minor surgeries before lunch. I don’t have anyone spare to wrestle with that kid.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up at the insinuation and he found himself glowering with unchecked hostility. 

“You’re talking about a baby,” he retorted, surprised by the surge of protectiveness he felt. He couldn’t quite seem to forget the way Anya’s face had contorted in desperate fear when she had spotted the nurse coming towards her. 

“That child has been a nightmare since she arrived,” snapped the woman. “A simple diaper change takes at least two of us, she bit my NA three times when he tried to give her a bath, and you can just forget trying to feed her. She spits out everything we manage to get in. It’s like she actually thinks we’re poisoning her. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s feral.”

Steve blanched at the accusation and took a step back, clutching the stack of supplies to his chest as though they were a substitute for his shield. 

“Is it really any wonder after everything she’s been through? You should be ashamed.” 

He knew he sounded nothing like his usual self - mannerly and cordial, to a fault at times - and yet he felt no guilt. Rather, Steve was aghast at how Anya had been treated by those who had been entrusted with the task of saving her. Anya was undoubtedly a victim of trauma - not to mention merely a baby - and, in Steve’s experience, both of those required patience and understanding if there was to be any hope of progress. 

“I told Fury this isn’t a crèche,” the nurse grumbled, slamming closed a filing cabinet and starting back down the corridor. Steve’s enhanced hearing detected her parting blow well enough. “The sooner that brat is out of my hair, the better.”

Steve winced, pained by the insult on Anya’s behalf, and he stood for a time staring at the retreating figure of the nurse as if the power of his glare alone might achieve some retribution for her. When the woman disappeared into a side room, leaving Steve alone in the corridor with his anger, he decided it was best to return to Nat. The accusations that had been levelled at the toddler weighed on his mind, and he found he walked faster as he considered all the ways the tender scene between mother and daughter might have soured in his absence. Certainly, Nat had more experience with kids out of the two of them, but Steve doubted that included mentally traumatised, super enhanced babies. Especially those that didn’t seem to take kindly to basic care routines. Steve’s pace quickened until he had broken out into a run. 

He pushed through the door fearing the worst and expecting only slightly better. To his astonishment, he discovered Nat settled in her chair with Anya balanced in her lap. From the child’s fingers dangled a set of keys, which she held up to the light to examine, entranced. When Anya attempted to bring the keys up to her mouth, no doubt intent on gnawing on them, Natasha gently but firmly pushed her hand away.

“Нет,” she chided, softly, and Anya obeyed. From where Steve stood, there was nothing remotely mutinous about her. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Rogers,” Natasha observed, eyes flicking to his face before returning to the baby. She didn’t seem able to control the smile that invaded her features. 

Nat began to comb her fingers through the knots and snarls dangling around Anya’s ears and, whilst the girl squirmed, she didn’t react beyond that. Steve wasn’t sure Natasha’s heart could have taken it if she had. He suspected that she would view any negative reaction from her daughter as a personal rejection. It would only confirm to her that she was making the right choice in sending the baby away and Steve certainly didn’t want to encourage that kind of thinking, if he could help it. 

“I just… The nurse said she’s not eaten since she got here,” he blurted out. 

He hoped that he wasn’t all of a sudden eyeing Anya as if she might leap out of Nat’s grip with a battle cry and a solid roundhouse kick. He would have been lying, however, had he claimed that the nurse’s appraisal of the kid hadn’t somewhat coloured his view. 

Aside from his fellow teammates, Steve wasn’t accustomed to dealing with trauma victims, and he definitely knew next to nothing about childcare. He couldn’t stand the thought of making anything about the terrible situation they’d stumbled into worse, and yet there was such scope for error that he was starting to develop chest pains just contemplating all that could go wrong. 

Natasha’s eyes darkened and she grimaced, upset by the information Steve had imparted. He held aloft the banana, which suddenly seemed too meagre of an offering, and struggled to form a smile. 

“She hasn’t eaten in two days and they gave you a nasty, shrivelled, old banana?” 

Her tone was icy, and Steve shuddered as a consequence of the resulting chill. He wondered if he should have fought the nurse harder but, in retrospect, it seemed unlikely it would have had much of an effect. 

“Yeah, she uh… they said she’s been refusing food, spitting it up, and er…” he trailed off, reluctant to fill in the blanks. 

It was too late, though, and Natasha had already realised there were more secrets to be pried from the captain. She cocked her head and arched a brow, levelling Steve with a look that could curdle milk. 

“Go on.”

Wincing, Steve rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and ducked his head, doing his best to avoid meeting Nat’s gaze as he stammered, “She’s… uh… she’s a biter.”

Glancing down at the seemingly docile girl snuggled into the crook of her arm, Natasha’s eyes widened. Then, much to Steve’s bemusement, she barked out a laugh that he was certain must have echoed down the corridors outside. 

“They’re afraid of her,” she observed, the look in her eyes a contrast to the amused expression on her face. Carefully, she stroked the back of her hand across Anya’s cheek, and the baby let loose a sigh as she pressed further against her mother’s belly. It looked, to Steve, an awful lot like contentment. 

“Give me that,” Nat instructed, holding out a hand for the banana, which Steve relinquished without question. 

In seconds, Nat had peeled it under Anya’s watchful eye, and broken off a segment from the top. She popped it into her mouth, chewed slowly and deliberately for several seconds, and then swallowed, barely managing to keep the sneer from her face; Steve knew she loathed bananas more than anything. Anya maintained her steady surveillance as Natasha repeated the routine, choking down a third and fourth piece of fruit valiantly. 

“безопасного.”

She offered a slice to the baby, who evaluated it for a moment with a cynical gaze and a knitted brow, before snatching it from Nat’s fingers and cramming it into her own maw. She barely chewed before she gulped it down, so ravenous with hunger that she let out a groan as she wiggled her fingers to demand the rest of the bounty. Nat handed off the remaining banana and Anya finished it in under a minute, gobbling it up as though she wasn’t certain when she might see food again. 

“It shouldn’t have been difficult to work out that she wasn’t going to trust them after everything she’s been through.”

Something in Natasha’s voice was resentful and Steve couldn’t blame her for it. Nodding his head in agreement, he held out the diapers and wipes, his smile a silent vow to help in any way he was needed. He wasn’t. Natasha changed and washed her daughter alone, with a practised kind of ease that he supposed came from her other life as ‘Auntie Nat’. Anya didn’t utter a single protest nor attempt to lash out once, even when the door swung open in the middle of her diaper change and an unfamiliar orderly poked his head into the room. Her body stiffened on the mat and she quietened until Natasha uttered a by-now familiar word of assurance.

“безопасного, little one. You’re okay.”

Before another hour had passed, Nat had managed to coax a cup of milk and a piece of toast into Anya, shampoo her hair in the sink, comb out the knots, and dress her in a pair of pyjamas a doctor had provided. They hadn’t seen the child so calm and pliant since she had arrived, the astounded woman remarked, eyeing Natasha as though she were either a baby-whisperer or a witch. Steve attributed the success to the calm way in which Nat worked around the kid - keeping up a stream of quiet chatter in Russian whilst she carried out each task. However, when the doctor had joked that she had feared they might need to call in an exorcist, Natasha’s mood flipped on a dime. Doctor Keats scurried from the room as though it was on fire, and Nat turned to Steve for the first time in a while with an anxious set to her lips. 

“I don’t want to leave her here with these people,” she said, hoisting Anya into her arms and balancing her on her hip. She wandered over to the window, careful to keep the baby just far enough away that she couldn’t reach for the blind cord, but close enough that she could watch the people milling about in the parking lot below. The view seemed to capture Anya’s attention and hold it, allowing Nat to focus on Steve again.

He had to fight hard to keep the smile from his face. Hope surged in his chest. It was dashed in the next instant, before he could find the words to question the meaning behind Nat’s statement. 

“I’m going to make sure Fury has her picked up before the end of the day. I don’t want her spending another second around those Идиоты.”

Steve’s heart dropped into the bottom of his otherwise empty stomach. He said nothing. He barely managed a nod. 

Then, Natasha was settling Anya back into her crib and running a hand through her freshly washed hair. The child gripped the bars as she watched her new friend, confused by the sudden hitch in the woman’s low, lilting voice, and the way her eyes had begun to leak. Anya had lived long enough, endured enough, to possess the vaguest comprehension of sadness. But even if she were to live a hundred years, Steve realised that Anya would never comprehend the depth of her mother’s sorrow as she wordlessly kissed her goodbye, and stole from the room. 

He found Natasha a couple of hours later, outside Fury’s office. She had showered, changed, and applied her make-up like a flawless mask. Steve was certain that nothing would fracture it this time. They exchanged barely a handful of words, although Steve was adamant that he would remain by her side as she signed the custody papers. The Black Widow refused. Nonetheless, he waited with her in agonising silence until she was called on by Alma. 

After nearly an hour of lingering in reception, Steve began to wonder if Nat was ever going to reappear. Fifteen more minutes passed before he started to debate the likelihood that they had been attacked by undercover Hydra agents, and were being held hostage with Fury’s letter opener. Five more and he was developing elaborate rescue strategies in his head, which involved crashing through the ceiling tiles and taking out a strike team with the water cooler. It was a further forty, though, before Alma took pity on him and barged into Fury’s inner sanctum to determine what was taking so long. She emerged quickly, grim faced and shaking her head, to inform Steve that Natasha had left already via the private stairwell. Fury ducked out behind her, beaming at the captain as though he hadn’t a care in the world; as if Steve wasn’t a complete idiot who had wasted the morning waiting on a woman who clearly didn’t require his presence. 

“What do you look so pleased about?” Steve demanded. The twinkle in Fury’s eye had finished off the very last of his good graces and Steve didn’t give a damn anymore about the belligerence infiltrating his tone. 

“She signed the papers,” his boss stated, grin broadening as he produced a folder from behind his back and offered it to Steve. 

Captain America glared at the file with open animosity, as though it was responsible for every tragedy that had ever befallen Natasha Romanoff’s life. Pointedly, he refused to accept it. Instead, he stared at Fury through narrowed eyes, offset by his clenched jaw. 

“I fail to see why that’s a good thing. You and I both know this could have been her only chance to… to have what they took from her. But I guess when she traded the Red Room for S.H.I.E.L.D., it was less of an upgrade than she thought. Only the mission matters, right? Can’t possibly have something more important than that getting in the way. Don’t you…”

“Quit your self-righteous whining, Captain Rogers, and read the God-damned papers before I demote you to a position that makes it look like the janitor is going places in comparison.” 

Fury scowled and thrust the folder at Steve, striking him solidly in the chest. With grudging compliance, he grabbed the file and flipped it open, seeking the source of Fury’s obvious glee. He muttered to himself as he scanned the page, taking in what appeared to be a fairly standard contract littered with just enough legal jargon to make most people uncomfortable; himself included. He leafed through the pages as rapidly as he dared, half afraid he might miss whatever Fury was so desperate for him to see. Eventually he found it, and his mouth dropped open so apparently that Fury guffawed. 

“She’s a trip,” the director crooned, delighted. He shook his head and wiped imaginary tears of laughter from his eyes. Steve glanced at his boss, shock rendering him slow witted and dim.

“Jessica Rabbit?” 

Head cocked and brow furrowed, he contemplated the meaning of what Romanoff had done. This time, it wasn’t merely the pop culture reference that had him baffled. Steve’s index finger traced the signature adorning the page, in place of the one he had expected to find scrawled on the line where ‘Natalia Alianovna Romanova’ was printed. 

“I don’t understand. She said she didn’t… she said it wasn’t safe.”

“Romanoff says a lot of things,” Fury shrugged, “but mostly she’s full of more hot air than I am.”

Steve’s eyes snapped back to the director, who seemed to be having trouble dispelling the Chesire cat-like grin contorting his lips. 

“I already had a panicked phone call from medical. They noticed the kid was gone about twenty minutes ago. I also seem to be down one Quinjet. Tracker was ripped out and stuffed in a trashcan, of course.” 

Dazed and more than slightly confused, Steve returned the folder to Fury, who snorted before flinging it onto Alma’s desk. The woman scowled and began to gather up the papers that had spewed from inside the file. 

“Be a peach and shred that, would you, Alma?” Fury barked, already on his way back to his office, where Steve assumed he would spend the rest of the afternoon, ruminating over this perceived success. 

“Wait,” Steve called, pausing to allow Fury to turn to regard him, which he did with impatience. “What do we do now?”

“Well, Captain, I intend to catch up on some paperwork, take in the Mets game, and maybe order a little Pad Thai. You? You can do whatever the hell you want.”

“That’s not what I…” 

His protest fell on selectively deaf ears, and Fury was ensconced in his fortress once more before Steve had time to register the slamming of the door. It echoed in his ears, distracting him from his thoughts. In the end, though, he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering back to Tasha, and to the child she had decided to claim as her own. It was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? The outcome he had been gunning for ever since he and Nat had learned the awful truth about what Hydra and the Red Room had done. 

So why did he feel such an ominous sense of foreboding – and why was it panic rather than elation that was clawing its way up his windpipe, into his throat, intent on choking him?

Steve wasn’t certain. Nat had thrown a curve ball that he hadn’t seen coming, and perhaps it was simply that ignorance didn’t sit well with him. Or maybe it was that she had gone to ground; disappeared without a trace. Although Tasha would not admit it, she had made herself vulnerable to her many enemies, who would salivate at the prospect of having the Black Widow and her offspring in their claws. Alone was never safer. 

His emotions shot, Steve raked a hand through his hair, flashed a wan smile at Alma, and made his way to the elevator. There was only one thing he was sure of, now, and it eclipsed his needs or desire for anything and everything else. 

He had to find Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> безопасного = safe
> 
> детка = baby
> 
> вверх = up
> 
> Нет = no
> 
> Идиоты = jerks/ idiots
> 
> All errors are my own but I ended up editing this chapter so many times that there was a real danger you'd never get to read it. It's not my best but I hope you all still enjoy it.


	7. Someday it Will Come to Be, I’ll Need You to Look After Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's decision is explained, and she realises where she needs to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. I'm so sorry for that unscheduled long break. About a month ago, I lost my job due to the pandemic. Whilst it definitely wasn't my dream job, it did help with paying the massive amount of bills that comes with having four children. After that my motivation was in the toilet, then I had to have one of my pets put to sleep due to illness, and then I ended up on two courses of antibiotics for an infection. It's not been the best month. However, I have picked myself back up, dusted myself off, and gotten back to what I love, which is writing. I have even managed to send my complete and edited first novel off to a couple of publishers for consideration, so wish me luck. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this fic, and I hope you enjoy the update.

She had acted on impulse and that should have scared her. 

Impulsivity was not a trait the Black Widow was renowned for. In general, her every move – down to an escaped sigh or the flutter of her eyelids – was carefully calculated. She had learned at a tender age that not all actions (or reactions) should performed to an audience. She was stuck in a pattern of concealing versus cautiously considered revealing, and that wasn’t a habit swiftly broken; much like the rest of those imprinted upon her by the Red Room and the KGB. 

However, although she recognised that she ought to, Natasha couldn’t bring herself to regret her decision, as ill thought out and hastily executed as it had been. 

She had only intended to visit her daughter in Medical one last time - to perhaps snap a sneaky photo on her cell phone whilst she still had the chance. She ignored the part of her brain that scoffed at such sentimental foolishness. Cynicism reminded her that photographs were evidence of humanity, which could be used against her by the enemy. She reasoned that she would just take one, and that the dainty, redheaded toddler in her picture could be passed off as someone else, if need be. A co-worker’s kid, a surrogate niece, the child of a mark. Given her violent, bloody history, few would imagine the truth; that the Widow had a secret daughter, whom she was trying her best to erase from public record. 

Deciding that showering could wait, Natasha had returned to Medical, this time without the steadying presence of the captain by her side. She had been due in Fury’s office in a little over an hour but that would give her plenty of time to take her photograph then collect herself, physically and mentally. 

She had bypassed the front desk, stealing through the corridors like a thief coveting a rare jewel, and proceeded to Anya’s room with urgency. Something in the air had felt wrong and, with anxiety sparking through her, Nat had completed her journey in a brisk jog. 

The screams had reached her ears before she had rounded the corner of the corridor, and Natasha felt as though she was being waterboarded. It took her breath away – that piercing, melancholy shriek – and sent a jolt of desolation to her heart. 

When she reached the viewing window, she pressed both palms flat against it and brought her face so close to the glass that her nose bumped it. She watched, eyes widened in horror and despair, as the two nurses grappled with the toddler whilst the third stood nearby. She brandished a syringe of something that was likely innocuous yet obviously causing Anya distress. 

Her baby fought tooth and nail - kicking out at her captors and flailing stick-thin arms through the air. Natasha anticipated catastrophe before it occurred and, before she could call out a warning, Anya had flung her head back in an attempt to catch one of the nurse’s off guard. Instead, the back of her skull connected with the nearby wall, and her resulting cry dwindled to a moan as her eyes fluttered. The nurses – give them their due – cursed and sprang into action, trying to assure the well-being of the child who had managed to render herself half-conscious with her resistance. They hadn’t meant to hurt her. 

Natasha had wanted to go in, more than she remembered having ever wanted anything in her life. To go to the baby, take her into her arms, and promise her that nothing in this cruel, unforgiving world would touch her ever again; that her mother was here now, finally. Yet she didn’t. She couldn’t. And, to her own great shame, she turned and ran – back along the corridors, forgoing the elevator, to take the stairs two and three at a time, until she was back in her borrowed room; pressed against the wall, head in her hands, and her body trembling so violently she might have been convulsing. She stayed that way for an immeasurable amount of time, until movement out in the hallway and the sound of another agent’s laughter hauled her from despair. She never did get her photograph. 

After that, she showered on autopilot, barely noticing when the water ran tepid and her skin started to pink from scrubbing. She dressed and brushed through her hair with her mind somewhere else and, when it came to applying her make-up, she was so inattentive that she couldn’t be certain she had applied the same shade of eyeshadow to both lids. It hardly mattered. She had looked worse, and today was not about the Black Widow and her infamous feminine whiles; today was about everything Natasha had lost, and everything she had yet to forsake. 

She wasn’t surprised to find Steve waiting for her outside Fury’s office. She was sure that he was disappointed with her decision but she couldn’t blame him for that. She was disappointed in it herself. Regardless, she brushed off his offer of moral support and abandoned him to Alma, who was always keen to spend a few minutes in Captain America’s company. 

Nat disappeared into Fury’s office without a backward glance, knowing that if she caught Steve’s eye then she would crumble once again. Whilst there was no dignity to be found in that, there was also no use in it either, and Natasha had had her fill of feeling like an inadequate failure. 

Fury pushed the papers across the desk without a word, although his good eye remained trained on her, fixed with enough intensity to make her uncomfortable. She tolerated his scrutiny as though she didn’t notice it at all, which both of them knew to be a bold lie. Eventually, tired of waiting for Nat’s walls to crack and tumble, Fury cleared his throat and began to drum his fingers on the desktop. 

“You need a pen?”

“Got one. Thanks.”

“Then why aren’t you signing?”

“Didn’t realise you were timing me. Got a hot date to get to or something?”

“No, just think you’d have signed already if you were sure this was the right choice.”

“It is.”

“Is it, though?”

“Not you too?”

Fury’s grin was instantaneous, and conveyed his absolute pleasure at the prospect that he wasn’t the only one willing to question Natasha’s decisions or motives. Most were too afraid of recourse to be so brave, but Nick could think of at least one other person who would walk across hot coals barefoot if it meant securing the best for Romanoff’s future. 

“I take it Captain Rogers doesn’t agree?”

Natasha scrunched her features into a scowl, which Fury thought accurately summed up her distaste at finally having found someone who could read her like an open book –as she did with everyone else. 

“Captain Rogers is so optimistic he might sprain something.”

Chuckling, Nick slipped a pen from the pot on the corner of his desk and rolled it across to Natasha. She stopped it with one finger and scooped it up, although she made no move to sign the document. Light from the nearby window flickered across her face, along with something Fury found himself hoping was uncertainty. 

“Is that so bad?” he asked, perching on the corner of his desk and affixing his agent with the kind of probing look his father had once pinned him with. At the time, it had made him feel like a butterfly in one of those great, glass frames; prone and preserved for all to scrutinise. 

“He practically lives in Pleasantville,” Nat countered, though she couldn’t seem to fill her tone with the level of disdain that should have accompanied the observation. 

She flipped the pen in her fingers, settled it against her palm, and began to fidget. The steady click of the nib appearing and receding was hypnotic, and Fury’s eyes settled on the object of Nat’s obsessive attention instead of her face. It was a nervous gesture, clearly, but not one he had seen from the likes of the Black Widow before. She was far too good of a spy to allow tension to string her out. Usually. But, Nick reminded himself, this was no ‘usual’ situation. 

“I think you’re forgetting what that man has been through,” said Fury, gritting his teeth against the click, click, click that had started to make his blood pressure climb. Natasha Romanoff may have ordinarily been too measured and controlled for anxiety, but Nicholas J. Fury was not. He had the S.H.I.E.L.D. issued prescription for beta blockers to prove it. 

“Before or after the ice?” asked Nat, sounding distracted. She leaned forward and forced her gaze to focus on the contract sitting on the desk. She captured her bottom lip with her front teeth to thwart the tremble in her chin. 

With a smirk, Fury countered, “For you.”

A single click resounded, like a gunshot, then the pen tumbled from Natasha’s fingers and she was scrambling to pick it up from the floor; determined to avoid Nick’s eye if it was the last thing she did. It didn’t matter, though - he could see the blush creeping up the base of her neck from where he sat, balanced on the table, one leg crossed nonchalantly over the other. 

“I don’t know what…” Nat began in a growl that hardly managed to mask the tightness of her voice. 

“It’s insulting that you expect me to believe that you haven’t noticed the way that man looks at you, Romanoff,” Fury retorted. “I pay you to read people. Steve Rogers isn’t exactly Finnegans Wake, now, is he?”

Natasha swallowed – a deep, audible, gulp – and then she clicked the newly retrieved pen one final time. By the time the faint ping of the spring had faded from all but memory, the Black Widow’s façade had been raised like a drawbridge, and she flashed her boss a smirk.

Then, she deadpanned, “Haven’t read it. You’ll have to fill me in sometime.”

She had made a show of scribbling her signature across the bottom of the page at lightning speed. So fast, in fact, that Fury hadn’t completely registered the scratch of the nib against paper by the time she was finished. She flipped the contract over on the desk and pushed out of her seat in a matter of seconds. Natasha was already halfway towards the door leading to the private stairwell at the back of the office before Nick had managed to stand, looking faintly perturbed as he stared after her. 

“I’m taking a few days off,” she had called back, punching in the code to open the security door. “Oh, and I’m keeping the pen.”

That had been several hours ago. Her pilfered pen sat in the breast pocket of her shirt whilst her pilfered child sat in the co-pilot’s seat at her side. Luckily, the toddler was too small to reach the control console with either hands or feet, which Natasha considered a blessing given the way she eyed the brightly lit buttons. 

It had been surprisingly simple to snatch a baby from Medical, which would have been worrying had it not also been convenient. Ripping the tracker out of the Quinjet had proven more challenging, but it wasn’t Natasha’s first rodeo so she had prevailed in the end, even without a toolkit. Collecting Anya had been the easy part of the equation. Now, Natasha was forced to confront the particularly tricky solution to the problem; just where she intended to take her daughter, and what she would do next. Of course she had safe houses and properties dotted around the globe but none of them had been baby-proofed. Some she had actively booby-trapped to deter unwanted intruders. It had taken her minutes to mentally run through the list in her head and deem every possibility unsuitable. The compound was most definitely out, too, unless she felt like explaining the bizarre series of circumstances that currently formed her life to her friends. They were likely to show an unparalleled level of interest in the details, and Natasha wasn’t certain she was ready to discuss those yet. 

Nat chewed on a hangnail as she peered through the window, barely noticing the field of perfect, fluffy clouds that the nose of the jet cut through. Anya remained quiet, which wasn’t wholly unexpected given the environment she had been raised in since birth. Raking her gaze over her daughter, Nat took in her somewhat dishevelled appearance; the slightly too large pyjamas she wore, the unkempt state of her hair, the snot that had crusted above her upper lip. She would need things, she realised. Clothes, diapers, milk, and some toys. Whilst Anya hadn’t been accustomed to much in her short life, it was a theme Natasha didn’t want to continue. Even on the run she could make the provisions her kid deserved. Still, she would need to start with a secure place to lay their heads, and she had no clue where or how to begin with that since she didn’t want to use her credit card, leaving a cyber-trail in her wake. Although she was certain Fury would leave her to her own devices for at least a few weeks, she couldn’t say the same for Steve. Poor Steve, whom she had abandoned and fled from as if he was the source of all her problems. Of course he wasn’t. It was simply that he didn’t – couldn’t – understand, and Natasha was all too aware that he was prepared to kill himself trying to. That shouldn’t be his fate; to once more risk everything, put it all on the line, for Natasha and her ugly, brutal past when it caught up with her. 

The baby cooed, silencing Natasha’s maudlin inner monologue. She flashed her daughter a smile, which she didn’t expect to be returned. It wasn’t. Anya may have reacted better towards Nat than she had with anyone else but that didn’t mean that the Avenger had earned any more than a modicum of her daughter’s trust. After all, a one year old knew nothing of biology and sentiment. Not that blood was an indication of anything more than shared DNA. After all, Brokeridge had willingly sold his daughter – if not merely the idea of her – to the bad guys. It was a grim prospect but not wholly shocking; the news was chock-full of stories about abusive parents, children abandoned on the streets, and little lives cut painfully short by the brutality of the world. 

“I’ll find us somewhere, детка,” she vowed. 

As if understanding, Anya scowled – unimpressed with her caregiver’s lack of preparation or planning. The crinkle in her brow diverging into the bridge of her nose was undeniably adorable. With a chuckle, Nat shook her head. The kid wasn’t going to go easy on her, that much was clear. Anya reminded Natasha so much of her past self that it was somehow painful, amazing, and amusing all at the same time. She supposed she too had been difficult in the beginning, following her defection. She remembered closing herself off from the people around her who had only wanted to help – too mistrustful to believe that there wouldn’t be strings attached should she accept their aid, their friendship, and their affection. Clint had never asked for anything in return, though, and never pushed her into anything before he was confident that she was ready. Natasha wasn’t sure how exactly to gauge those sorts of thing with a baby, who probably didn’t understand her own fearful mind most of the time.

She anticipated failure in a way she hadn’t come close to comprehending before. The realisation that not only someone’s life, but their rehabilitation, was in her hands was terrifying, and she was woefully ill-equipped for it all. Yet she had made her decision and her bed, which she would have to lie in, regardless. That was usually a much easier pill to swallow when you weren’t completely alone. Suddenly, Natasha knew what to do. She needed someone else - of that she was abundantly sure - but not just anyone would do. No. What Nat and Anya both truly needed was someone who understood what it was to love a girl that had been forever tainted by the Red Room. 

Setting a course for the farm, Natasha leaned back in her seat and turned to her daughter. They couldn’t stay with the Bartons forever, but maybe long enough that Clint could help set them on the right path. It was kind of what he did best, where Nat was concerned, at least. 

Anya was sleeping when the jet touched down in the old cattle field at the back of the farmhouse. Nat gathered the bundle of limbs and mussed hair into her arms, and approached the porch with a foreign sense of trepidation. The Barton farm was a place of joy and love and laughter for her; the one place she had ever been that didn’t have a slew of awful memories attached to it. So why was this so hard? Before she could consider it further, the front door was flung open and Nate spilled outside, his arms already reaching for his favourite aunt. 

“Auntie Nat! I missed you! Did you bring Lego?” Nate chattered in the breathless rush of childhood. 

He flung himself towards Nat’s legs with intent and a squeal. However, at the last second, he spotted Anya and he drew back, curiosity painted on his face. 

“Who’s that?” 

The sound of hurried footsteps on old wooden floorboards rescued Nat from the predicament of having to provide an answer. Laura appeared in the doorway behind her youngest child, her lips curving into the warmest smile when she laid eyes on Natasha. Her gaze ticked to the baby huddled against her chest a beat later and, whilst that smile wavered, it didn’t extinguish. 

“If I’d known you were coming I would have gotten some of that vodka you like,” Laura said, hands drifting to Nate’s shoulders and settling there. “Clint’s gone to town with Coop. They should be back in an hour or so. Is this a flying visit?”

Natasha swallowed, tracking Laura’s stare to her daughter, who was starting to wriggle in her arms, coaxed from slumber by the fresh air. It was obvious that there was a million and one questions on the tip of Laura’s tongue, but she wouldn’t ask a single one of them until Nat gave her the green light to do so. It was one of the reasons that Laura Barton was such a wonderful friend. 

“I’m sorry, Laura. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Don’t be sorry. You know you’re always welcome here. Our home is your home.”

With a nod, Nat shifted the baby in her arms, trying to get a better grip. She was much harder to hang on to when awake and squirming furiously. 

“I need… I mean… I… Can I…” 

She stammered the beginnings of her explanation, which she’d rehearsed on the jet during the journey, but the words muddled in her mind and wouldn’t seem to form on her lips the way she wanted them to. 

“It’s okay, Nat. Whatever it is, it’s okay,” Laura assured her. 

If Natasha looked closely, she would see the tears of gratitude pooling at the corners of Laura’s eyes, but those were wounds she didn’t have time to address right now, and so she pretended not to notice. Another day, she promised herself.

“I think I need help,” Natasha managed, adding quickly but not thoughtlessly, “please.”

Stepping aside and holding open the door, Laura jerked her head down the long hallway, her grin all the invitation that Nat had ever needed. 

“You’d better come in, then.”


	8. I've Got Friends That Will Run Through Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bartons try to allay Natasha's still present fears.

On the table between them sat a pot of coffee, growing steadily more tepid as time marched on. 

At their feet, Nathaniel played with a box of cars that had once belonged to Cooper. They showed their age by the odd missing wheel and the chunks of paint that had been chipped away by the boisterous hands of the two Barton boys. Every so often, Laura would pause to shoot her youngest child a glance, assuring herself of his well being – as mothers tend to do. Nate hardly seemed to notice her attention, so engrossed was he in his play, as he crashed his ‘favourites’ into the baseboards and lined up vehicles in rows to count them. His quiet chatter, not always easy to decipher, served as a proverbial hammer to the silence that would have otherwise surely dominated the room. 

Meanwhile, Natasha held in her lap a remarkably placid baby, who had resisted all attempts from Laura to coax a smile from her. She eyed everyone with suspicion, including Nate, who had lost interest in the new arrival once he realised she was too young to make a decent playmate. 

A jumbled, semi-adequate explanation for their presence at the farmhouse had tumbled from Nat, whilst Laura did her best to follow along the twisting paths of that narrative. When it had proven impossible, she had directed Natasha to the table, set down a plate of cookies, and put the kettle to boil on the stove. Had there not been children present, she would have cracked open a bottle of wine, since it certainly seemed as though Nat could use the distraction. Instead, she stirred a generous heap of sugar into the mug she slid across the table, hoping it would help with the shock. Laura wasn’t the type to interrogate or drag the truth from anyone, and so instead she sat – patiently and without judgement – to wait for Natasha to offer whatever truths she was comfortable sharing. Eventually, she had imparted the worst of it to Laura and that was when the silence had drawn around the women like a curtain. 

Eventually, the refrigerator kicked to life with a hum, snapping Nat’s gaze from the china plate Laura had spread the cookies on. She had been blissfully lost in the whirls and swoops of the pattern, and so it was quite a wrench to find herself so suddenly back in the Barton’s home, where reality was awaiting her. Laura noted that the baby’s eyes had also fixed on the plate but she suspected for a very different reason. Chocolate chips had once served as a beacon to Lila, too, and Laura couldn’t help but grin at the memory. Her girl was so much harder to reach these days, in the wake of the snap. Less sugar and spice, more sharp edges and quietly simmering fury. Truth be told, Laura feared that she was losing her daughter in a way she had never anticipated and it terrified her. She knew from her own experience of life, and her husband’s work, that it was a far more difficult task to light a path for those that strayed from the road. 

Shaking her head free of her troubles, Laura picked up a cookie and held it out to Natasha’s daughter. The tiny girl observed the move with a sort of clinical detachment, and Laura was reminded immediately of the version of Natalia Romanova that she had met so many years ago. The one who had been chewed up and spit out by monsters. 

“Look, Natasha,” Laura began, wincing at the sound of her own voice going off like a gunshot, “I can’t begin to imagine how this feels… to have this… this… enormous revelation dropped on you from such a great height.”

Nat’s eyes flicked to Laura’s face and a smirk tugged at her lips. Talking to Laura always felt like coming in from the cold. 

“I know you’re not asking for my approval, or probably even my opinion, but I think you’ve done the right thing.”

“Have I, though?”

Nat was uncharacteristically pensive. Nibbling her lip, Laura scooted to the edge of her seat and reached across the table with her free hand to grip Natasha’s fingers. Her skin was cool to the touch, as usual, but Laura didn’t flinch away. She hadn’t in fifteen years and she wasn’t about to start now. 

“Yes. Absolutely. There is no doubt in my mind. The best place for this child is with you.”

“Because I’m her mother?” Nat demanded, spitting out the moniker with a note of derision that Laura hadn’t expected, yet could understand. 

Natasha had never anticipated becoming a mother; it was a decision that had been wrested from her hands so long ago that time should have rightfully dulled the pain. However, Laura knew that it hadn’t – had been acutely aware of that fact every time she had watched Nat play with her children, or rock them to sleep, or help them with their homework. The glimmer of something, fierce and unspoken, in her eyes was so very telling. Some wounds never fully healed, and the fact that they didn’t visibly fester didn’t mean they didn’t hurt like hell. 

“No,” Laura countered with a shake of her head, “because you’re you. Not every woman is made for motherhood, Nat. That’s fine, if they choose to avoid it, but some people aren’t that smart. I used to see it all the time when I was working; women who had no business taking care of houseplants having children, women getting pregnant to keep some guy then regretting it, young girls who couldn’t cope with the burdens of a baby. You’re none of those people. Far from it. If you truly just don’t want to be a mom, then we’ll support you finding her someplace else to live. Somewhere safe, where she’ll have the best life. But don’t you dare sit here and tell me that you can’t do it or you shouldn’t do it because of who are you are or the job you do because… well, that’s nothing but self-serving bullshit.”

“Mommy, you said a swear!” Nate accused, excited as his head whipped up. He fixed his mother with a glare and a poorly concealed grin, prompting a puff of laughter from Natasha. 

“I’m sorry, honey. I’ll put a dollar in the jar,” Laura soothed him, gaze drifting back to Nat and the baby. When she spoke again, her voice was lower - more soothing than stark. “I think I know that this is something you have wanted for a very, very long time. Something you thought you could never have, and so you convinced yourself it was for the best so it didn’t sting as much.”

Avoiding Laura’s eyes, Natasha bobbed her head. Finally, she plucked the cookie from Laura’s hand then snapped off a small piece. Laura watched as she chewed and swallowed before exhibiting her open, empty mouth to the baby in her lap. The child had been observing her with interest, which didn’t once waver as Nat proceeded to hand her the remainder of the treat. She fell upon it with both hands and immediately pressed it to her own mouth. She nibbled at the cookie with two, partially erupted front teeth, and Natasha’s lips twitched. 

“You deserve this,” Laura breathed. “More than anyone else I’ve ever known. You deserve it.”

Swallowing audibly, Natasha shot her friend a look that laid bare every niggling fear and doubt that threatened to consume her. 

“I am not a good person. How can I raise her when I know that?”

“We all commit our share of sins,” Laura said. “I’ve lied, cheated, hurt people. Hell, when I was fifteen, I was arrested for shoplifting half my spring wardrobe from Forever 21.”

Lowering her voice to a whisper, Natasha spoke her confession; a secret that had never been kept from Laura Barton and so hardly needed to be told.

“I’ve killed people.”

“So has Clint,” Laura shot back, shrugging with the sort of apathy exhibited by one who had never snuffed the light from another’s eyes. Someone who thought they could comprehend what it was to end a life. 

“They weren’t always bad people. My ledger…”

“I don’t want to hear this ‘ledger’ crap at my table…”

“Mommy! Two swears! That’s two dollars!”

Ignoring the pipey voice that was fast heralding her bankruptcy, Laura pressed on, “You know who he is, and what he’s done, because you were there on the side-lines for half of it. A front row seat.”

Natasha squirmed in her chair, discomfort radiating from every pore. She was gripped by sudden uncertainty as to whether Laura was angry at her for the double life she had condoned Clint in leading for all those years. Did she harbour unspoken resentment towards Natasha for being unable to prevent Hawkeye’s transition to Ronin? She hoped not. She would give anything to take it all back - to sponge clean Clint’s ledger in the same way Steve claimed that throwing herself off a cliff in Vormir had done hers. 

“But you look me in the eyes, right now, Natasha Romanoff, and you tell me that my husband… you tell me that man doesn’t deserve his kids; that he’s not the best father you have ever seen, and that they are worse off for having him in their lives. You tell me they don’t need him.”

Natasha gaped like a fish out of water and floundering on the banks. Her grip tightened around the baby, who didn’t seem to notice the adjustment thanks to the sugar hit working its way through her body. 

“I… I can’t…” she breathed, heart clenching regretfully as she watched Laura swipe moisture from her cheek. “I can’t because that’s not true.”

“Well, there you go, then,” Laura finished, taking a sip from her now cold coffee and peering at Nat over the rim of the mug. Her eyes may have been watery, logged with countless unshed tears, but the intensity of her stare was not diluted by them. 

Laura finished her coffee in five, long, loud gulps, and Nat looked away to allow her time to properly collect herself. A quick glance to the side revealed that Nate had gotten bored with the grown up talk he could only half understand at some point, and had wandered off to another part of the house. Nat thought she could hear strains of a kids’ TV show emanating from the lounge, and so she assumed he had fled the fraught atmosphere of the kitchen in favour of Sesame Street. 

“So, you left out one thing.”

Returning her attention to Laura, faintly surprised at the once more level note to her voice, Nat frowned. The last few hours were as much of a blur as the last few days had been, and she couldn’t quite recall how much of the tale she had furnished Laura with or which details she had omitted. 

Leaning closer, her grin designed to encourage the baby to meet her gaze, Laura stated, “You didn’t tell me this little sweetheart’s name.”

“Oh, it’s…” 

Nat stopped abruptly. 

She had known it had felt wrong – the name they had given her – even as it had spilled from her lips the first time, but she had allowed it anyway. She had continued to let them dictate and dominate aspects of her daughter’s life as though they had any right to at all. They didn’t. They hadn’t. And there she was, granting them that power, despite the fact she had confessed to Steve that she hated it. He had encouraged her to act, to right a comparatively small wrong, yet she had made her excuses to avoid doing so, and protested that she could not name a child that she could not keep. That had been a lie, of course, designed to protect herself from what she had feared acknowledging most; her overwhelming, almost primitive desire to mother this child. Well, it was a truth she no longer had need to run from. 

Tentatively, Natasha murmured, “It’s Rose.”

She hoped Steve wouldn’t mind. 

Her baby – her Rose – chose that moment to peer up at her, bright and alive with curiosity. It felt a little easier to breathe all of a sudden, and Natasha’s smile morphed into a grin that appeared to spark something within her daughter, too. Slowly, the girl’s lips and eyes and doll-like features scrunched into a smile of her own. 

“Well,” Laura observed in an amused drawl, “I think Rosie knows who her mommy is.”

“Nah. That’s just the sugar rush,” Nat joked, voice thick despite her feigned nonchalance. She had been unprepared for such a wave of emotion to overcome her but she rode it until it swelled into a crest, everything in her singing. She was a mother. Nobody could take that from her now. 

Laura began to clear away the coffee mugs whilst Natasha helped Rose to secure a second cookie. It was demolished as rapidly as the first had been, Rose barely pausing to breathe between mouthfuls. She had probably never experienced anything so sweet and decadent before, Natasha realised. There would have been no first tastes of chocolate or ice cream in the lab. No potato chips or candy or even birthday cake. Simply what was required to keep her small body functioning, and not a single scrap more. Nat’s own stomach rolled, and she resolved to introduce Rose to the delights of double chocolate fudge cake as soon as possible. 

“Laura, what if I mess it up?” Natasha blurted out. “What if I mess her up? I don’t know what I’m doing.”

From her position at the kitchen sink, where she rinsed the mugs clean, Laura let out a snort of laughter. She turned to face Nat, suds dripping from her fingertips onto her skirt, and an amused sort of look spread across her features. 

“Sadly, kids don’t come with a manual. None of us really know what we’re doing. We’re all just winging it and hoping for the best. If we’re lucky, we won’t screw them up completely.”

“And if we’re not?”

“Then I hear therapy can work wonders,” Laura shrugged. 

Before she turned back to her chores, she swiped her hand into the sink and flicked the bubbles at Natasha. Surprised and intrigued by the foam landing on her skin, Rose let out a squeal; the first sound to escape her since they had arrived at the farm. Seconds later, Laura was awarded her first smile. 

Clint returned home in the afternoon with an armful of bags and Cooper in tow. His confusion at seeing his ex-partner sitting in his lounge with a baby on the floor at her feet was immense and palpable. However, he managed to restrain himself from demanding explanations until Laura had corralled the boys into the kitchen to put away the groceries. Lila was at a sleepover with a school friend so would likely miss out on the excitement of Auntie Nat’s visit for the time being. 

Natasha found the story easier to tell a second time, and so she filled Clint in on the details whilst keeping a watchful eye on Rose. The baby leaned against her mother’s legs and bashed together a set of wooden blocks that Laura had found in a cupboard, stored away from Nate’s infancy. Nat couldn’t help but notice that her play seemed stilted and uncertain, but she supposed Rose hadn’t seen much in the way of actual toys in her life. 

As soon as Nat had finished her tale, Clint fell mute and still whilst he processed her words. He alternated between staring into the fireplace and watching Rose chew on her blocks, although he made no comment to indicate what he was thinking. Finally, he broke his silence to echo much the same sentiments that Laura had; Natasha had done the right thing in taking the baby, she would be a wonderful mother, and the Bartons were in it with her for the long haul. 

For the rest of the afternoon, they pottered around the farm together, enjoying each other’s company, watching Nate chase the chickens, and introducing Rose to the swing set in the yard. 

It wasn’t long before Laura was calling them in for dinner and Nat allowed her to help with strapping Rose into the highchair that had been retrieved from the attic. The baby ate sparingly, mistrustful of the food and the many new faces. Whilst Laura was an amazing cook, she was also a seasoned mother of three and so she wasn’t offended at all when Rose refused to try anything except a hunk of bread. Natasha was remarkably relaxed about it all; it was early days and she wasn’t about to place unrealistic expectations on a toddler. 

After dessert, Clint assembled Nate’s former crib in the guest room, beside the bed Natasha slept in whenever she stayed. Laura had managed to fold some towels into makeshift diapers but it was obvious that, come morning, someone would need to make a full supply run for Rose. It wouldn’t hurt for one night to put her to sleep in one of Nate’s shirts, but Natasha knew she would need to start working on establishing some sort of routine with the baby, just as soon as she had come up with a concrete plan as to where they might go. The Barton farm could only be a temporary solution. A sort of stop gap. There was no way that Natasha was prepared to stay too long and risk the safety of her oldest friends when the Red Room came looking for what she had stolen. And it was inevitable that they would come looking. 

Nat hovered by the crib for an unnecessary amount of time, readjusting the bedding and stroking Rose’s back as she squirmed on the mattress. It was obvious the girl was exhausted from the way she rubbed at her eyes with her fists, but she fought sleep with everything she had left in her. Clint dimmed the lights and, after brushing a kiss to her daughter’s crown and tucking the teddy Cooper had donated to Rose into her hands, Nat padded to the doorway. She had expected resistance – a sharp cry or, at the very least, a whine – but the baby simply rolled onto her side and burrowed deeper under the blanket. Nat could only hope that her daughter realised she would still be there to greet her in the morning. 

Together, Clint and Natasha tiptoed from the room, the latter with the receiver of an old baby monitor tucked into her jeans. 

“Tomorrow, we’ll work on a way to keep you both hidden. Just for a while, until it’s safer.”

They paused in the hallway outside of Lila’s bedroom and Nat leaned back against the wall, her arms folded. She nodded her agreement, grateful beyond words to Clint, who was willing not only to open up his home to her at a moment’s notice but also to help her fight whatever battles loomed on her horizon. Whilst he claimed he had retired from S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers, he could never leave Natasha hanging out to dry, and so he would be there for her and Rose without question. After all, Nat was family in everything but name and blood. She could never have imagined upon leaving the Red Room and the cruelty of the KGB behind that she would one day be so rich. 

“I have to say,” Clint continued, a hint of amusement in his voice, “I’m kind of surprised you showed up here without Rogers in tow. Haven’t you two been joined at the hip lately? What’s up with that? He too chicken to change a couple of diapers? America’s ass - scared of a little pee pee.”

Natasha laughed, covering her mouth with one hand to dull the sound so as not to disturb Nate or Rose. 

“I didn’t exactly give him the option to come with,” she explained when she was able to iron out her grin. “He has enough to worry about with the team and the new facility. He doesn’t need me dragging him into my shit, too.”

“And I do?” Clint asked, chuckling when Natasha scowled and aimed a fist at his shoulder. He rubbed at the spot in mock outrage, although the twinkle in his eye gave him away. 

“You know what I mean,” continued Nat, avoiding Clint’s stare as he ducked his head to scrutinise her.

“I’m not sure that I do. That man literally travelled through time and space to bring you home, Tash. In most circles, that’d be considered pretty heavily invested in ‘your shit’.”

Natasha blanched, though whether at the mention of Vormir and her resurrection, or at Clint’s insinuations regarding the captain, Barton couldn’t be sure. 

“Well, maybe I don’t want him to be,” she muttered, her grip on her own shoulders tightening suddenly, as though she was attempting to offer herself reassurance. 

“Now you’re plain lying to me,” Clint accused, good naturedly given the hand he rested on Natasha’s elbow. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Romanoff. I may be getting old but I’m a ways from senile. There’s more between you two than you want to admit.”

“No. Steve, he… he loved… he won’t… I’m not ready for that.”

Natasha was quick to respond yet she tripped over almost every syllable. Clear as day, Clint could see the panic stretching her lips into a taut line. He resolved not to push. When it came to whatever was going on between Steve and Natasha, it was their business and their business alone. With a sigh, he squeezed her arm then pulled her into a hug. From the way she melted into his chest, sagging with relief and fatigue, he could tell that she had dearly needed the contact. But, as usual, she had been too proud to be the first to reach out for it. 

Not attempting to extract himself from their embrace, Clint instead mumbled his next words into the crown of Natasha’s head. 

“You don’t have to be ready for a relationship to accept the guy’s help, Tasha, and we both know he would help you if you’d only ask.” Dropping a platonic kiss to Natasha’s forehead, Clint finished quietly, “Let him be your ally if you won’t let him be anything else. You can do this alone, but you shouldn’t have to.”

Drawing away from Clint with a wavering half smile, Nat bobbed her head. There were tears gathering in the corners of her eyes but she rarely felt the need to brush them away in his presence. Clint had already seen the very worst of her and still he hadn’t turned his back. 

“I can promise to think about it,” she murmured with a sigh that seemed to deflate her body like a spent balloon. 

Clint had known her long enough to accept that for what it was. The Black Widow’s word was her bond. 

“Come on, let’s go watch some mindless reality TV or something,” he encouraged, wrapping his arm around her waist and guiding her towards the stairs. 

She cast a last, lingering glance back at the guest bedroom but Clint indicated the baby monitor poking out her back pocket with a jerk of his head. 

“You’ll hear her if she needs you.”

Whilst Natasha knew it was the truth, it was more difficult than she had expected to force herself to join Laura, Clint and Cooper in the lounge. The three Bartons squeezed onto the sofa together, limbs entangling, and Nat took up residence on the floor by Laura’s feet; a deliberate choice that placed her close to the door, just in case. There was nothing but the hum of static and Rose’s delicate breaths from the monitor, but it still took Nat far longer than usual to unwind. Eventually though, she grew distracted by the movie playing out on the screen and by Clint’s obnoxious belly laugh. By the time Laura pressed a cup of cocoa into her hands, most of the tension had eased from Natasha’s muscles, and she was able to sit fairly comfortably – drink in one hand, baby monitor cradled in the other. At intervals, Laura would feed her pieces of popcorn so that she wasn’t required to forsake her grip on her physical link to her daughter.

It was as relaxed as Nat was likely to get and she knew that was in no small part down to the company she kept. Over the years, the Barton family had far surpassed the expectations one might place on mere friends. They had taken her in, mended her broken body and spirit, taught her how to live in a world that she had been designed to burn to the ground. In her darkest hour, they had been all that had kept her head above water, their compassion and kindness buoying her when the current grew so strong she feared she might slip beneath it. She didn’t deserve to get that lucky. Not after all she had done. 

And yet, sometimes, when she sank into one of Laura’s hugs, or Nate slid his little hand into hers, or Lila begged her to braid her hair before a ballet recital, Natasha could almost believe that she had done enough to earn this; she was worthy of their love and its limitless bounds. 

It was the most wonderful sentiment, and she would hold on to that for as long as she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my imagination, Laura was a family social worker before becoming Mrs. Hawkeye. I think it just fits with what we saw of her character, and would also explain how/ why she was so accepting of Nat and all her emotional baggage. 
> 
> Also, do we think Steve will mind that Nat 'stole' his name? :-)


	9. Nothing That We’re Made of is Built From Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha should have known that she could never outrun Steve. But did she really want to?

Morning dawned after an uneventful night, during which Natasha discovered that Rose slept surprisingly well. The Black Widow herself had barely managed more than twenty minutes sleep – far too paranoid that the darkness might bring with it some unanticipated threat. By the time Rose made her first peep at almost six, Natasha was glad for the excuse to rise. Tossing and turning in Clint’s guest bed was hardly her idea of a good night, and so she could only hope for a more successful day. After a brisk shower, she threw on her rumpled clothes and carried Rose downstairs. Laura and Clint were in the habit of being up with the sun given the chores attributed to farm life, and so Nat was unsurprised to find them both already milling about the kitchen. 

Natasha was attempting to spoon oatmeal into Rose’s mouth when the sound of a motorcycle engine rumbling into the farmyard drew all eyes to the window. Clint and Nat exchanged weighted, wary glances whilst Laura took the bowl and spoon from her hands, slipping wordlessly into the seat she had occupied. The Widow and Hawkeye were already making their way to the door, Nat’s dominant hand closed around the hilt of a kitchen knife and Clint with his shotgun slung over his shoulder. Cooper and Nate were still tucked away in bed, dead to the world, which Nat supposed was one less thing to worry about should their visitor prove to be hostile. 

The screen door swung open with a bang as Clint nudged it with his foot before striding out onto the porch, shoulders squared and eyes narrowed. His stance was a warning; dangerous and volatile, conveying a message to whomsoever dared to disturb the peace of his little slice of paradise - this was his castle, and he didn’t need an army to defend it.  
Really, Nat should have anticipated finding Steve in the yard as opposed to a strike team of KGB and Hydra lackeys. She should have known it would be only a matter of time before the captain would figure her out and chase her down. Nonetheless, she breathed a sigh of relief when her eyes fell upon the soldier, who was stowing his helmet on the handlebar whilst Clint’s ornery rooster – Leghorn – pecked around his boots. Natasha remained silent, guilt holding her tongue, but Clint rested his shotgun against the side of the house and strode towards Steve with a welcoming hoot. 

“You too good to call in advance now, Rogers?” Clint shouted, although his eyes gleamed and his tone was jovial. “I almost filled you full of buckshot.”

He met Steve half way to the stoop, and the two men enveloped each other in a hug that consisted of much manly back slapping and rippling muscles. When they drew apart, Steve was smiling, yet there was something unsettled and uncomfortable in his expression. 

“Sorry, Barton, I wasn’t thinking. Guess I was a little… preoccupied,” said Steve as he shot a not-so-subtle glance at Natasha. She barely managed to meet his gaze, a little irritated with the feelings of remorse that swamped her. Maybe she should have told him that she was leaving, but she had been trying to protect her daughter; the fewer people who knew where they were, the less dangerous it was for them all. 

“Do you wanna come inside and have some coffee, or should we just glare at each other in the yard for a while longer?” 

Natasha scowled at Clint, who was too busy grinning at Steve in a knowing fashion to be bothered by her irritation. 

“I guess I could use a coffee,” Steve admonished, sidling up the steps with half a wary eye on Natasha, as though he anticipated that she might strike at any moment. She probably looked pissed off enough. 

“Make yourself at home, Steve,” Clint drawled as he pushed the door and ducked back inside. He didn’t quite manage to dodge the elbow Nat dug into his ribs as he passed by.

Steve entered the hallway behind Natasha and stopped a few paces in, clearly unsure of how or if he should proceed. Nat seemed almost annoyed by his presence but that had never stopped him before. However, there was a child in the mix, now – another person to think about in all of this – and Steve had no desire to make things more difficult than they needed to be. Now that he knew Natasha was safe and well, if she didn’t want him, then he would leave – no questions asked, no hard feelings. 

“Is this… is it okay with you if I stay a while?” he finally enquired, head cocked. “I can go if you want. I just needed to make sure you were both okay.”

He was the picture of chivalry and calm, despite his every right to be incensed by Nat’s abrupt disappearance. She felt the wind leaving her sails half a second before her shoulders sagged. Steve possessed the ability to crash through her walls like a wrecking ball, although Natasha suspected he was mostly unaware of that fact. She reached out with one hand and touched Steve’s shoulder, doing her best to flash him a smile that concealed how pleased she was to see him. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you before I left,” she murmured, peering at Steve through doleful eyes that sent a shot straight to his heart, “I wasn’t thinking. You deserve better than that.”

A smile flickered into being upon Steve’s lips and, as his eyes creased at the corners, Nat couldn’t help but notice fatigue etched into every line and crevice. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn when she had last seen him outside Fury’s office, and his jaw was peppered with a thick dusting of stubble. She had done that to him, she realised with a jolt, and that knowledge felt terrible. 

“Did you get any sleep last night?” she blurted out, finding her palm suddenly hovering over Steve’s cheek instead. She retracted her arm when she realised what she was doing and chalked her forwardness up to exhaustion. 

Shaking his head, he replied, “Hitched a ride in a jet to Columbus, rented a bike there, and drove straight through. Pretty sure I broke a few traffic laws on the way.”

Natasha blanched, Steve’s admission having both conversely shocked and moved her. There weren’t many people in her life who could be counted on to display such devotion, but Steve was a rare gem; a gentleman who harboured a set of morals and a code of conduct from an altogether different time. A better time, Natasha hazarded. 

“I really am sorry,” she said, more subdued. “I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing or where I was going. I was already in the air before I decided to come here. How did you even know?”

“I figured Clint and Laura were a logical choice.”

“What if you’d been wrong?” Nat asked, curiosity lighting her eyes and features better than the sunlight that streamed in through the farmhouse windows. 

“Then I’d have regrouped and thought of something else. I wouldn’t stop until I found you.” 

He stated it with such certainty and determination inflected in his voice that Natasha didn’t for a second doubt him. He would follow her to the ends of the earth and even beyond, if it came down to it. 

“Let’s get you that coffee.” 

Nat ignored the way her cheeks flushed with heat and hoped that Steve might do the same. If he noticed then he didn’t comment as he trailed in her wake towards the kitchen, where Laura was already stirring cream and sugar into a mug for him. 

“She won’t eat it for me,” Laura declared as Nat inserted herself back into the chair in front of Rose, who was bashing her palms down on the highchair tray with wild abandon – no doubt enjoying the racket she was creating. She at least seemed to realise that, in Natasha’s company, she was free to explore and investigate the world as any child should be. There would be no repercussions for curiosity or playfulness or emotion, simply opportunities and encouragement for them all. 

“Come on, детка,” Nat cajoled, picking up the spoon then twisting and twirling it through the air to Rose’s mouth as though it was an airplane. Had nobody else been watching, she might have even made the accompanying engine noises. 

Suddenly eager for her breakfast again, Rose opened her mouth. Her fingers wiggled and twitched in an expression of joy at simply receiving another meal. She chewed then swallowed, and her mouth was hanging wide open for the next load before Nat had managed to scrape more oatmeal up. She appeared to be trusting food more and more, so long as the offer came from her mother’s hand. 

From the doorway, where he watched with a wondrous expression, Steve chuckled at the scene. Smirking, Clint buried his face in the morning paper and chose to say nothing. 

“Looks like you’ve been doing pretty well.”

Steve directed his observation at Nat but his eyes were on Laura as he moved further into the kitchen to accept the mug she offered. His large hands wrapped around it, warmth seeping into his skin and bringing a look of contentment to his face. Or perhaps that was down to being in Natasha’s presence once more. 

“Of course she has,” Laura said, almost a note of challenge in her voice. “She’s had plenty of practice with our little hellions. This will be a walk in the park.”

Nat shot the woman a grateful smile that seemed to succeed in settling down Laura’s surge of protectiveness. She appreciated her friend’s willingness to go to bat for her, but it truly wasn’t necessary in the company of Captain America. Even Clint could tell that he was ready, willing and able to worship the ground the Widow walked on, as soon as she would allow him to. 

“It helps that she’s kind of a dream.”

Nat made the admission with a shrug whilst scraping scraps of oatmeal from Rose’s chin with the spoon. The baby grinned at her suddenly and brightly as if she had understood every morsel of her mother’s praise and was keen to gobble it up, too.

“Don’t say that. That’s tempting fate, right there,” Clint warned, finally glancing up from his paper to chide Natasha and keep her sudden optimism in check. It wasn’t at all like her. Maybe motherhood really could change a woman. 

“Don’t listen to him, Rosie. He’s a cynical, old man,” teased Laura as she swept past the highchair, stopping to ruffle Rose’s bed-mussed curls. 

Steve stilled immediately, hands tightening around the mug he held. There was a loud pop and a crack began to appear through the words ‘Kiss the Archer’, which were emblazoned on the front of the mug. The captain barely noticed even when coffee started to leak from the fissure onto his fingers. 

Nat too froze, staring at Steve through huge, vulnerable eyes. 

“Y-you named her Rosie?” 

Finally, he seemed to come back to himself, realising not a moment too soon that hot coffee was trickling through his hands and pattering onto the tiles. He moved rapidly to the sink and dumped out the contents of the mug, the back of his neck flushing in embarrassment. Clint dived back into the paper like he might be able to physically lose himself in the pages, if he only tried hard enough. He couldn’t help but feel as if he and Laura were intruding on something they had no real right to bear witness to. 

When Steve wheeled back round to face Natasha, she had already unclipped a grubby Rose from the chair to balance her on one hip. Two pairs of breath taking, green eyes tracked Steve’s face, searching it for all his closely guarded secrets. 

“Rose, actually,” Nat admitted, squaring her chin as if she half expected rebuke and was steadying herself to receive it. “I should have asked you. If it’s not okay, I can…”

She didn’t finish. She couldn’t. For Steve had crossed the room in three strides and tugged both mother and child so snugly to his chest that Natasha’s face was instantly pressed into the marble plane of his pectorals. Much to everyone’s surprise – including her own - she didn’t resist. Instead, she leaned into the heat of him, and rested her ear above the spot where his heart pounded a strong rhythm. 

“I… thank you.”

He whispered it into the shell of her ear as he bent his head. Nat swallowed, nodded, and reluctantly extracted herself from Steve’s arms when Rose began to wriggle, tiring of being constricted. 

As Natasha drew away to wipe Rose’s face with a damp dishcloth, Laura shepherded Steve towards the sink, clucking at him until he agreed to hold his hand under the cold faucet for a few minutes. Nobody bothered to point out to her that any burns or scalds he might have sustained from the incident would be healed within the hour. Sometimes, it was better to allow Laura to fuss. 

By the time Laura had smothered Steve’s fingers unnecessarily in aloe Vera, and Nat had removed the worst of the crusted oatmeal from Rose’s cheeks, Clint was emerging from his paper, antsy and impatient. 

“If we’re finished kissing Rogers’ booboos,” he taunted, shooting a look at Steve, “then we have supplies to buy, plans to make, and an evil Soviet secret organisation to burn down.”

“Sounds like a hell of a schedule.”

Wiping her hands on a rag, Laura grabbed her purse from the nearby chair and swung it up onto her shoulder. 

“Well, since I can’t be much use with the espionage stuff, I’ll stick with what I know I’m good at,” declared Laura, her grin impish as she kissed Clint’s cheek then happily announced, “I’m going shopping.”

Frowning, likely out of concern both for his credit card and his wife’s safety, Clint caught hold of Laura’s arm before she could reach the door. 

“Remember, use the…”

“Card with my maiden name on, don’t park where there’s cameras, and if I discuss purchases with store assistants – lie,” Laura supplied for him. The eye roll she directed at Nat was at odds with the soothing tone she adopted, and Steve couldn’t keep from smirking when Laura stooped to plant another, more lingering kiss on the side of Clint’s jaw.  
This was a brief that Laura had obviously received one too many times, but Steve couldn’t blame Clint for wanting to drum into his wife the need for caution. The lives they led were far from normal and hardly conducive to protecting what the couple had managed to build for themselves at the farm. Steve was sure he would be exactly the same under similar circumstances. 

Somewhat assuaged, Clint released his wife’s arm, although his reluctance was obvious. However, he wasn’t one to smother, which was something the fiercely independent Laura would never allow. 

“Any specific requests, Nat?” Laura checked, looking back at the spy, who shrugged as though indifferent on the matter. 

“Formula, diapers, wipes, teething rings, pyjamas, clothes, shampoo,” she recited, managing to sound bored despite the look of delight that flickered across her face. This was a list she had never anticipated herself making. “Maybe a couple of story books. And, if it’s not too much trouble, a stuffed toy? I know she has the bear Coop gave her and all, but…”

“You want her to have something new. Something that’s only hers,” said Laura with an understanding smile and a nod. “Aunt Laura will find the perfect stuffy, don’t you worry.”

Steve was still too busy reeling from the content set of Natasha’s features to realise that Laura had exited the kitchen, taking with her the keys to the jeep and most of Clint’s serenity. A sort of dark look settled over the archer’s face and his shoulders carried the kind of tension born from their line of work alone. It was evident to Steve that Barton would be shooting glances at the clock on the wall every few minutes until his wife was home. 

Natasha was the one to shepherd them through to the lounge, with her daughter clinging to her like one of the limpets he recalled seeing hanging off the rocks at Coney Island as a kid. The memory was decades old by now and yet it was as sharp and in focus as if it belonged to that morning. One of the many benefits of his super soldier serum. 

Rose settled on the floor without a fuss but Steve noticed that she didn’t make a beeline for the pile of toys set out in the corner of the room. Instead, she waited for her mother to offer her a wooden xylophone and a stick, the latter of which she gazed at with keen interest before accepting. Rose had likely been conditioned to suppress her own desires and wants unless expressly given permission to act upon them, which was an idea that Steve found only stoked the flames of his anger towards the Red Room. He continued to watch as Rose made a few experimental and hesitant taps on the toy before seeming to realise that nobody was about to rip it from her hands. 

Nat began talking whilst Steve was still lost in his thoughts. She hovered over Rose as she spoke, her hands clasped nervously in front of her body, and her eyes constantly roving the room before always returning without fail to her daughter’s face. 

“I have about seven safe houses that I could potentially make work, with a little help.”

“I think we should assume that every single one of those is compromised,” interjected Clint, a sour look on his face. “The Red Room have been smart enough to avoid your detection for over fifteen years. They clearly know more about you and your life than we could have given them credit for.”

Natasha appeared to contemplate the advice for a moment, her lips pursing into a frown. When she eventually nodded, Steve recognised defeat in the slope of her shoulders. 

“There’s the compound…”

The suggestion had barely passed Clint’s lips before Nat was vetoing it with a vehement shake of her head and a scowl. 

“The team can’t get involved in this. It’s not safe for them and it’s definitely not safe for Rose. The more people that know, the more people who are at risk.”

“And the more people who could potentially blab your secret,” Clint admonished, somewhat reluctantly. Nat didn’t have to nod to acknowledge the truth; agreement was present in the slight narrowing of her eyes. 

Steve’s head shot up and he fixed Natasha with an almost startled stare. He had assumed that she trusted the remaining Avengers implicitly, despite any complications that may once have surfaced in the past, and it was somewhat shocking to consider that he had misjudged the situation.

“The team would never betray you,” he began to protest. The sense that he should say something – anything – as their leader, in their defence, was overwhelming. However, he fell silent when Natasha turned sorrowful eyes upon him. 

“I know that, Steve. I would never have fought so hard for them all during the snap if I didn’t. But they have their own lives, now – their own missions – and it’s unfair and frankly dangerous for me to drag them into this. What if Hydra or the Red Room got their hands on Bucky again? Or Wanda? Do you know what they could do to her? They’ve all been through enough. I won’t be the cause of more heartache. Nobody would intentionally betray me or Rose, but they are not immune to manipulation, either. I would be leading our enemies right to them and painting targets on their backs.”

Truthfully, he hadn’t considered it that way; that - despite their powers and their training and their inherent strengths - they were all vulnerable to something, in the end. Bucky had been the strongest, most honourable man Steve had ever known way back when, and not even he had been capable of fighting off Hydra’s brainwashing. The secrets they had managed to wheedle from his damaged mind over the years didn’t bear thinking about. Nor did the deeds they had forced upon his hand. 

There was simply too much on the line for Nat to risk right now, and he couldn’t in good conscience try to convince her otherwise. 

“Okay, I understand.” Steve couldn’t fail to miss the relief that passed over Nat’s face, followed by a smile that made his heart stutter. 

“Maybe Pepper could hook you up with somewhere?”

The suggestion came from Clint, who was reclining with his legs draped over the arm of an easy-chair whilst he watched the back and forth between his friends. Steve barely listened as Natasha shot the idea down in flames, but he trusted that her reasoning would be sound, anyway. Nat had made it evident that she would do only what she could be unfailingly confident was in the best interests of her child, and Steve knew she needed little help to figure that out. When she heard a good idea, she would roll with it, but they had yet to hit upon one, and so Natasha would make them work until they did. 

She had once told Steve that she only pretended to know everything; had spat it at him with fire in her eyes and heart, in fact. It was a memory that never failed to evoke a smile for him, and not simply because it was the moment that had marked the beginnings of their friendship, but also because it was such a Natasha thing to say. However, she had underestimated herself that day – in Steve’s opinion. Whilst it was true that no one human being could ever possess all the answers to all the questions, Natasha was something of an anomaly; a mixture of genius level intellect, flawless focus, and unrelenting training, which, combined, had moulded her into the embodiment of the perfect operative. And, if there was one thing a spy knew how to find, it was answers. She might not have them right out the starting gate but she surely wouldn’t rest until they were hers. 

Yes, he had faith that she would know the right thing to do as soon as she heard it. 

“Steve?” 

His name tugged him free from a web of memories, musings, and errant thoughts. He blinked to clear the confusion from his eyes and hazarded a glance up at Natasha, who had moved to stand over him at some point in the last few minutes. Steve could see interest and irritation flickering across her features in succession. He almost feared he was about to be reprimanded for not listening, but she seemed to stop herself from scolding him at the last moment, clamping the tip of her tongue between her teeth hard enough to still it. 

“I agree, about Pepper,” he said, offering a smile that stretched half way to an apology. “She’s been through enough the last few years. Plus, any property with even a hint of the Stark name stamped on it would bring Hydra down on us faster than you can say ‘star spangled banner’.”

“You can’t really say it that fast,” muttered Clint, just loud enough to hear over the sound of Rose smashing away at the xylophone. He earned himself a glare from Natasha and a chuckle from Steve, nonetheless. 

“I think, though,” Steve murmured, pausing to take the kind of deep breath he would need to steady his nerves and his wildly beating heart, “that I could have a solution. Somewhere you can stay.”

A brow raised, Natasha flashed him a look and a smirk. The former conveyed simply her relief and gratitude, while the latter told Steve that she had not once worried that her faith in him might have been misplaced. Natasha had known that letting him in – involving him in this sudden, unexpected part of her life – would prove to be beneficial to both her and Rose. It was just that she had wanted so much more for him than a couple of birds with broken wings. 

If she knew what Steve was poised to offer up to her, she would never agree. He was as sure of that as he was his own name. Regardless, he didn’t merely want to do this for her – he needed to. His happiness had not hinged on something so much since a frenzied trip to Vormir that had ended in an exchange he could never have anticipated. 

So, for possibly only the third, or maybe fourth, time in his entire life, Steve Rogers resolved to do something that was the antithesis of everything Captain America stood for. 

He would lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure I'm happy with this chapter but I hope everyone enjoys it, anyway.
> 
> I also started an Avengers/ Romanogers comic on my Instagram, just for fun. If you'd like to take a look then it's under @sammies_simmies. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay well.


	10. Out in the Garden Where We Planted the Seeds, There is a Tree as Old as Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Nat arrive at his 'safe house', but all is not as it seems.

Laura had returned an hour later and, as good as her word, she was loaded down with enough supplies to tide Rose over for a few weeks. Nat couldn’t thank her enough, although she did try – profusely. The crumpled bills she pressed into Laura’s hand were refused – a move backed by Clint – until Natasha was resigned to the fact that she would need to buy all three Barton children a car for their seventeenth birthdays if she ever hoped to repay her friends’ kindness. 

The icing on the cake, however, was when Laura presented Rose with her promised stuffy; a sleek, pink nosed, black cat with a ribbon around its neck. It was a perfect fit for Rose’s hands and the child reached for it with eagerness before the tag had been removed. Almost at once, she seemed to forget her mistrust of Laura, who was delighted by the acceptance. 

Natasha dubbed the cat ‘Liho’, earning a scolding from Clint, who was of the belief that ‘Fluffy’, or perhaps ‘Mittens’, were far more suitable monikers for a child’s toy. Rose didn’t seem to mind either way. She jammed Liho’s ear into her mouth to suck on it, signifying to Laura that she had selected the right companion after all. 

The Avengers didn’t linger much longer at the Barton farmhouse. They couldn’t afford to, Nat reminded them all, if they were to stay one step ahead of the Red Room and Hydra at all times. Steve shot her a pensive look that suggested he held similar concerns, and so they set about packing up the jet for their journey to Pennsylvania. That would not be their final destination, Steve assured, but it was far easier to travel undetected by road than it was by air. They would ditch the plane, switch to a car, and avoid the interstate wherever possible. 

Whilst Laura distracted Rose with cartoons, Natasha, Steve and Clint loaded the jet. Nat attempted to protest when Clint stowed the highchair and a travel bassinet with the other luggage, but his insistence paid off in the end. The items were graciously accepted, along with a car seat the Bartons had never gotten around to selling after Nate had outgrown it. The navy blue fabric was patterned with tiny tractors and diggers, but Rose was hardly of the age to understand or protest gender constructs. 

“I knew my hoarding tendencies would come in handy eventually,” Clint quipped, as Natasha cast an eye over the haul. When she hugged him a second later, her arms locked around his body a little tighter and a little longer than usual. 

They said their goodbyes with a sense of uncertainty heavy in the air between them all. Whilst Laura, Clint and the children would have dearly loved to welcome Rose into the family as a surrogate niece and cousin, the situation did not allow for it. Her safety was of paramount importance and, until the threat had been neutralised, Rose needed to be hidden away from the rest of the world. The Bartons understood this, in light of Natasha’s past, and yet they couldn’t help but mourn the prospect of all the time together they would miss, even as it slipped further and further out of reach. Holidays, birthdays, vacations – every first of Rose’s, (and Natasha’s, as a new mother), that they could not and would not witness. It left a bitter taste in both Clint and Laura’s mouths, but they each did their best to hide it as they smiled and waved at the baby, and pressed kisses to Natasha’s forehead. Nobody knew how long the separation would last – or what fortune it might bestow on either party – and that made it all the more difficult to concede to. The farm was as much Natasha’s home as it was the Bartons’, and they were as much her family as they were each other’s. Whilst Natasha had been given a gift in the discovery of her daughter, it was an acquisition that did not come without cost; a price she had in fact paid before, when she had dangled over the side of a cliff face, imploring Clint to let her go. Once more, she would leave the Bartons behind, uncertain if or when they would be reunited. In turn, they were losing her again and, whilst that was a familiar ache, it was one they could not grit their teeth against a second time. 

Steve got the jet in the air whilst Natasha encouraged Rose to drink from her sippy cup in the hopes of preventing her ears from popping as they gained altitude. Once they were soaring through blue skies and past flocks of birds, Natasha settled in the co-pilot seat next to Steve. The smooth motion of the jet lulled Rose to sleep fast, which could later prove to be a curse rather than a blessing, depending on how well she took to the road trip ahead of them. 

Conversation between the two Avengers was stilted and awkward for the majority of the flight. Not only dog-tired but also dogged by worry and unease, they could hardly help the long moments of silence that stretched out between them – suffocating and fraught. Still, nothing could stop Steve from reaching across the space that separated them and taking Natasha’s hand; a signal that he was with her, always, until the end of the line. 

It was a relief when they landed in an abandoned quarry in Pennsylvania, a short trek from the nearest town. Natasha stood back at a distance with Rose and their belongings whilst Steve ripped the flight recorder from the jet, then proceeded to take a fire axe to the consoles and control panels inside. He left Fury’s pride and joy a sparking, smouldering shell, but it was a destruction born of necessity. If Hydra or the Red Room were to locate the jet, Steve wanted to be sure that it would prove impossible for them to trace its flight path. Nick would understand what was at stake. 

With the flight recorder stowed in his backpack, Steve left his girls under the cover of a copse of trees in the woods and set off at a super-soldier paced run to town. He bought the most inconspicuous car he could find at a scrapyard – cash in hand – then doubled back to collect Natasha and Rose. His disguise hadn’t been perfect, (sunglasses, a beanie pulled low over his forehead, and one of Clint’s old, light jackets), but he was at least confident that he had escaped notice. Not always an easy feat in a Podunk town, where newcomers can be viewed with a mixture of excitement and hostility. He would work at growing the full beard back in, he decided, maybe colour his hair a little, but the priority was reaching their destination undetected. 

Natasha insisted on driving so that Steve could get some sleep and he was truthfully relieved by her persistence on the matter. He showed her the first leg of the route on a paper map he found in the glove compartment before he hunkered down in the back. Rose surveyed him with discomfort as he sprawled next to her, and so Steve did his best to give her some space. In time, he hoped that Rose would come to trust him, as she was trusting Natasha more and more, but he couldn’t and didn’t expect miracles right away. The kid had been through so much, likely at the hands of strong, brawny men just like him, thus he could hardly blame her for watching him with distinct wariness scrunching up her face. 

He fell asleep in record time, hardly soothed into it by the potholes and bumps in the road, but neither prevented from it. His body felt weighted with fatigue and so he allowed his limbs to sink into the upholstery, which smelled faintly of beer and dog piss, without protest. It was pitch black before he reawakened with a jolt. His eyes immediately went to Rose, heart thrumming uncomfortably. When he found her relaxed and limp in slumber, Liho in her lap, his pulse slowed. Second by second, his nightmares about unseen Hydra tails and roadside Red Room attackers faded into the sound of the purr of the engine. Usually, when Natasha drove, it was more of a growl or a strained splutter. She had garnered a reputation for putting her foot down like she wore lead boots - not only enjoying the sensation of hurtling along at barely legal speeds, but also the terrified reactions of her passengers as they clung to the door handles for dear life. Now, however, with such precious cargo, she maintained a respectable ten below the speed limit. 

A chuckle of realisation escaped Steve and he felt Nat’s eyes snap to his face before he even saw the flash of her pupils in the mirror. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice croaky from temporary disuse, “it’s just… the Black Widow is a soccer mom.”

The protein bar hit him in the forehead a second later. Whether preoccupied with the road or not, Natasha’s aim was true and deadly. Steve only laughed harder, though he was careful not to wake Rose, whose thumb drifted to her mouth as she wriggled in her car seat. The sigh that escaped her was sweet and encouraged a surge of familiar protectiveness to rise in Steve’s chest. There must be something about green eyes and red hair, he thought, absently. 

“Eat, drink some water, then I’ll pull over and we can trade places.”

Nat’s voice was so thick with exhaustion - words clipped in some places and slurred in others - that Steve felt guilty for sleeping too long. A glance at the clock on the dash told him they’d already been driving for close to five hours, but he knew Nat well enough to realise she would never disturb him to admit her own weakness. Obediently, Steve demolished three protein bars in succession and drained a bottle of water before tapping Nat on the shoulder. She pulled into the next layby with relief. 

They continued the journey with Natasha slumped low in the front passenger seat so that she could prop her feet on the dash. When Steve questioned why she wasn’t making herself comfortable in the back, Nat indicated the rear view mirror with her pointer finger. 

“Better view of the road, Rogers. If we’re being tailed, I stand more chance of noticing when I’m up here.” 

Steve didn’t fight her on the decision, aware of the futility of that, although he did find himself looking in the mirror at the highway behind more than necessary. Suddenly, he was increasingly suspicious of every car that rumbled along behind them.

“You could use some rest, Nat,” he said, hopeful she would listen to reason, at least on this. The dark circles ringing her eyes suggested she needed to sleep sooner rather than later. 

“I’ll rest when we get where we’re going,” she countered. 

Her voice was firm enough that Steve opted not to argue. She was a big girl, as she often chose to remind him, and he had to trust that she was aware of her own limits. Swallowing his protests against his better judgment, Steve flicked the radio on low and fixed his attention on the windscreen. 

They drove until the first strands of dawn ruptured the clouds, poking through like fine needles making holes in fabric. Rose awakened with a grumble and promptly buried her face into Liho’s synthetic fur, suggesting that she was not an early riser through preference. Nat was ready with a smile and a greeting for her daughter, and Steve realised that such joy must be contagious if the grin on his own lips was anything to go by. 

“We’re almost there,” he assuaged them both as Rose started up a fractious whine and Nat shot him a look. “Ten miles. Then we’ll fix you some breakfast, Rosie.”

In response, Steve received a pout and a sigh, which was comical in its weight. Natasha settled back into her seat, this time with one arm snaked around the back of her chair so that she could rest a hand on Rose’s knee. Every so often, her fingers tickled the baby’s leg mercilessly, until she was able to draw a chuckle from the toddler that satisfied her. 

The fishing village they drove through was situated on the edge of Maine, which was one state that Natasha was unfamiliar with. Steve, though, possessed a handful of happy childhood memories of the place, which he had visited with an uncle who had taught him how to catch sturgeon. Of course, a young Steve Rogers had been as unfailingly kind as the somewhat older incarnation, and he had insisted on throwing the creature back afterwards - much to his uncle’s combined amusement and distress. Steve smirked at the remembrance, his eyes tearing a touch with nostalgia as they passed the harbour and the collection of boats it housed. He had never seen that uncle again after his mother’s funeral, and he was doubtlessly long gone, now. 

“This place is beautiful,” Nat observed. 

Her eyes were locked on the passenger window, taking in the picturesque wooden houses and tall poplar trees as the car sped by. 

“The town centre is small but pretty decent. Kind of old fashioned. There’s a diner, hardware store, pharmacy, doctor’s office. Most of your essentials. The people are… nice.”

Natasha stayed mute, likely considering the viability of the location when it came to remaining hidden. Steve had thought of that too - extensively, in fact - before he had made the suggestion. He remembered the years he, Wanda, Sam and Nat had spent hiding well. They had flitted from city to city, staying lost in the crowds, never lingering more than a few days in any one area to avoid detection. It had been exhausting, and it was that fact alone that had damned near killed them on a number of occasions. It was certainly no way to live with a child in tow. 

Whilst the town of Larkbridge might have housed barely over a thousand people, it was innocuous and unobtrusive enough that Steve doubted it would be the first or last place that anyone would come looking for them. In fact, Larkbridge was tucked far enough out of the way on the coastline that it wasn’t even a speck on most maps. A prime location to disappear, if one knew how. 

When they turned off the road and onto a glorified dirt track, Natasha sat straighter in her seat, as if she sensed they were closing in on their destination. Steve watched her out of the corner of his eye, observing every twitch of her fingers where they lay clasped in her lap, and every hitch in her breathing. She was clearly nervous but of what Steve couldn’t decide. He held a few theories - none of which he cared to explore at the present moment. Instead, he drove on, letting the silence dominate them. 

The track twisted ahead for three quarters of a mile, taking them past fields erupting with fresh ears of golden corn, and a manmade pond with a small jetty jutting out into it. As they drew up to the whitewashed two storey at the end of the road, Steve threw the car into park and the tyres kicked up gravel from the drive. Nat was out of the passenger door in an instant, squinting up at the second floor bay windows with her palm raised to shield her eyes. Steve slid the keys into his pocket and joined her, one hand hovering at the base of her back out of habit. 

“This is really something, Steve.”

Nodding, Steve sank his teeth into his bottom lip and looked away. Beads of perspiration sprouted on his forehead, nothing to do with the heat of the morning. 

“Safest safe house I know of,” he declared when he found he could no longer avoid Nat’s stare. 

“How long have you owned it?” she demanded, arms crossing over her chest and her hip jutting out. 

“Steve Rogers doesn’t,” he answered, smirking. “It belongs to Joseph Conway. He bought the land a few years back.”

Lips pursing in approval, Natasha cast her eyes back to the house, taking in every nook and cranny; the wraparound porch complete with hanging swing; the pale blue painted shutters; the yard that stretched on until it met the picket fence that served as a boundary line. 

Unease flitted over Nat’s features. She tucked it away as quickly as she could, although it did not escape Steve’s notice. 

“You’re certain it can’t be traced back to you? Nobody knows about this, there’s no records of the sale or previous property listings…”

“Nobody knows about this place except me and you,” interjected Steve, an odd smile contorting his lips as he added, “and I can guarantee we don’t need to worry about old property listings or previous occupants. We’re safe here, I swear, Nat.”

Running the tip of her tongue over her dry, cracked lips, Natasha bobbed her head and took a step back. Her eyes never once wavered from the house, which stood over them like a grand sentinel – promising the security they both so desperately sought.

“Well, alright then,” she agreed, finally. “I guess we should unpack the car.”

It was a task that took far less time than it ought to, given the combined efforts of their enhanced strength. They dumped their bags in the hallway and Steve offered them a tour immediately. Charmed by the boyish excitement colouring his features, Natasha couldn’t refuse, and so they walked room to room with Rose tottering between them. Surprisingly, she didn’t resist when Steve offered her a hand to hold onto. She seized it, curling her whole fist around his index finger, and allowing herself to be led. 

Nat soon discovered that the house was a sort of Tardis – far more spacious inside than it had seemed at a glance from the drive. Despite having not been lived in for apparently quite some time, the interior smelled fresh, clean, and faintly of lavender, as opposed to musty and stale with disuse. A light coating of dust might have covered the furniture and the surfaces, but it wouldn’t take much to get the place fit for habitation. The sight of a brand new pine kitchen nearly took Natasha’s breath away on the spot, and certainly made her wish that she was a more proficient cook than she actually was. Of course, she could pull off pasta and maybe the odd steak, but a space so grand – with its marble countertops and cupboard doors with intricately carved handles – seemed to demand more superior fare. It was a good job, Nat found herself commenting, that Steve enjoyed cooking as much as he did. Without response, he steered them into the dining room, which contained an eight seat table and a window that overlooked the back yard. Whilst the borders hadn’t been planted, the lawn had been recently mowed, and someone had attached a tyre swing to a branch of the apple tree that presided over the land. 

Nat took it all in quietly and eagerly, awed by every inch of the house’s subtle beauty, from the real log fire in the lounge to the thick, oatmeal coloured carpet that her feet sank into as she walked. 

When they ventured upstairs, Steve showed her each of the four bedrooms in turn. All but three were large enough to be considered doubles, though only one was furnished with a bed and wardrobes. The walls of what Nat considered to be the master suite were painted a muted yellow, which complimented the navy silk duvet that covered the four-post bed in the centre of the room. An old fashioned vanity table leaned against the far wall, adjacent to a door that Steve indicated belonged to the ensuite bathroom. He wasted no time in insisting that this would serve as Natasha’s room for the duration of their stay and, equally, she wasted none in putting him straight; they would share, she decreed, as was only right.

Steve relented faster than she had expected and then led them to the adjoining room, where he suggested they set up Rose’s travel bassinet until they could secure her a proper crib.

Natasha was suitably impressed by it all and at the same time perplexed. The whole house managed to appear almost shiny and new, and yet she couldn’t shake the impression that the walls had witnessed more history than she could begin to imagine. It was a puzzle and a mystery, no doubt, but one that Nat didn’t have an awful lot of time to contemplate. Not if she hoped to stay at the top of her game. For the moment, she elected to set any reservations aside, and simply be thankful for what she was being offered; refuge, by a man who wouldn’t hesitate to lay down his life for her or her daughter. Not that she would ever allow him to, but the sentiment touched her, nonetheless. 

The remainder of the day passed them in a blur of diaper changes, forming escape plans, and discussing additional security measures. Steve had already wired an expensive Stark-made alarm system into the entire house, but he was insistent on going the extra mile with Rose’s safety on the line. 

When he revealed that there was a panic room in the basement, Nat had to dig her nails fiercely into her palm to keep from calling the captain out on the rat she had long since started to smell. Suspicion mounted inside her like snow piling into a drift. The sedentary, rural location – the signature shade of blue woven into the décor – the rocking chair she had spied lurking beneath a sheet in the smallest of the upstairs rooms – none of it added up. Natasha had owned many safe houses throughout her life yet she had never cared so meticulously for one. Not as Steve seemed to care for this one. In fact, by comparison, the properties Nat owned were downright dank and miserable; nothing more than a place to recoup and lay her head for a night or two, at most. When you were running for your life, such issues as whether the drapes matched the couch cushions became inconsequential. 

However, confrontation was in nobody’s best interest, and it would do no good to push Steve into revealing truths before he was ready or willing. She reminded herself of this at least twice an hour, right up until dinner time, when Steve served up canned beans and sausages on beautifully printed plates that he first had to unpack from boxes and bubble wrap. By then, Natasha was incandescent with both rage and distress, which created a curious internal combination, indeed; one that did not lend itself particularly well to sparkling dinner conversation. So, they ate in mutually observed silence, which Nat broke only to encourage Rose to eat. At intervals, Steve eyed his partner over the rim of his glass of water - not once allowing his poker face to slip. Although the captain may have perhaps sensed that he had been rumbled, and the jig was up, he appeared adamant not to acknowledge it until Natasha forced him to. 

God, he was an idiot. A hopeless, noble, pathetic, brave, tragic idiot. He deserved so much more, Natasha lamented whilst she carefully dried off Steve’s expensive plates as she watched him attempt to give Rose her bedtime milk. The baby curled in his lap, head resting against his chest, and mouth barely closed around the bottle. She would lose her fight against sleep soon, but Steve looked content enough to just sit. 

It was a sight that made Nat’s heart leap and thud and soar all at once. And yet, at the same time, it served to highlight all that Steve had forsaken by taking them to this perfect, little corner of heaven.

This, Natasha had realised – somewhere between the breakfast nook and the hallway window seat – was what Steve’s happily ever after looked like. He had brought them, in all his glorious selflessness, to the one place that he had thought they would be secure; to the place where he had intended, at long last, to get a life. 

He should have known better. Better than to give up something that meant the world to him, for her. Better than to sacrifice his future happiness like that. Better than to bring her to this place, where he had doubtlessly imagined another woman would sleep in his bed and brush her hair in front of the vanity table mirror. 

Where he had once dreamed of rocking his own children to sleep as daylight dwindled to dusk. 

Most of all, though, Steve Rogers should have known better than to lie to the Black Widow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're unclear on what just happened, Steve has taken Rose and Nat to the safest place he knows of; the home he intended to retire to once they had defeated Thanos. Of course, what with Nat's return and lengthy mental recovery, he never actually got around to that retirement. However, he did start to put plans in place, for when the time came. He thought he could manage to keep the true purpose of the house from Natasha, but he really should have thought that one through!
> 
> Nat certainly does not feel worthy. She believes that the house will now be compromised, being reduced to a 'safe house' to hide from Hydra and the Red Room, and that Steve will no longer be able to live in this place that he clearly loves so much. This place which, Nat imagines, he planned to bring his future wife to. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope everyone stays safe. My country is now back in lockdown for the next two weeks so please be patient waiting for updates as I may yet have all four children back home.


	11. That's What Makes It a Love Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a sort of head between Steve and Natasha.

“We should go into town today,” Steve declared, as he rinsed their bowls clean of the last of the oatmeal. They had been forced to make it with water since there was no milk in the fridge and, as a result, Rose hadn’t been nearly as enthusiastic about eating it as she had been at the farmhouse. Both Nat and Steve had tasted far worse in their time but the stubbornness of a toddler cannot be equalled, and Rose had refused more than a few bites of her food before she had attempted to fling the bowl. It was only Steve’s close-to-inhuman reflexes that had prevented catastrophe. 

“We do need groceries.”

Steve turned his head to watch as Natasha did her best to attack Rose’s face with a washcloth. The baby fended off her mother with an annoyed squeal and a swipe of her arm. She appeared to be growing braver by the day, and Steve wagered it wouldn’t be long before they were treated to the emergence of some full blown tantrums. He had even begun to Google parenting tips a little, in anticipation of the inevitable. Whilst Natasha had enough experience with children to muddle through the worst of it, Steve was clueless; it felt almost like entering enemy territory, without weapons, and with an enormous target painted on one’s back. Whether he would survive the venture into the breach remained to be seen. 

“Rose needs a proper crib, too,” added Steve, averting his gaze from Natasha’s face as he sensed her resistance brewing. 

“It can wait.”

There it was, right on time. 

“We have to do it sometime, and going to the store in person is much safer than ordering online. We can disguise ourselves a little, pay cash, then there’s no online trail,” Steve reasoned. He hazarded a glance in Nat’s direction and immediately wished he hadn’t. She stared at him, toe tapping the tiles in a thoroughly vexed manner. 

“I mean, it can’t be good for her to not sleep on a proper mattress.”

Nat’s nostrils flared and Steve wished he could retract the comment. No doubt Natasha had viewed his concern for Rose’s welfare as a direct critique of her limited foray into the world of parenting. No matter how much he reassured or praised or admired her, Nat would always be waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for the condemnation she felt she deserved in every area of her life. 

However, Natasha seemed reluctant to pick a fight at present and so she turned to focus on releasing Rose from the highchair. With her back to Steve – her face concealed – she called out to him over her shoulder. 

“Fine. There are some bills and a credit card in my purse. Help yourself.”

The instruction immediately conjured a frown on Steve’s lips. He had hoped they might all go together. Whilst it was vital to keep Rose hidden and secure, it was unhealthy and borderline cruel to shut a child in a house indefinitely – no matter one’s reasons. It would feel to Rose simply as though she had traded the walls of one prison for those of another. Nonetheless, Steve was a wise enough man not to voice that concern, and he instead opted to broach the subject from another angle. 

“I can’t use those. Some of the people in this town know me. Well, they know Joseph Conway. If I walk into the grocery store with a credit card in someone else’s name, we’ll have the sheriff on the doorstep in no time at all. Once there’s a police record, Hydra and the Red Room won’t be far behind.”

Heaving an exasperated sigh that was half a snort, Natasha spun around. Her arms crossed over her chest as though she hardly registered the defensive stance, and she levelled a glare at Steve that was as sharp as any blade that had ever pierced his skin. 

“So what do you suggest?” demanded Natasha, unconcerned by the acerbic bite to her tone. 

“We all go. Convince the nice people of Larkbridge that Mr. Conway has moved in with his wife and daughter.”

The resultant silence was instant and it felt decidedly deadly. Steve had never regretted speaking more in his entire life, including the moment he had once whispered Bucky’s name in a Math lesson back at school, resulting in his backside being so severely tanned by the teacher that he couldn’t sit down for several days afterwards. He would happily take another such whipping over the quiet, cold fury surging into Natasha’s expression. 

Every last hair on Steve’s body stood erect - drawn by the glower that Natasha had paralysed him with – and the captain couldn’t help but shrink in on himself a little. His shoulders dipped, his back hunched, and he felt smaller than he ever had before in his life. Suddenly, Steve Rogers was left wondering if his physical transformation into Captain America had been the product of some fever dream, rather than actual reality. Right now, bearing the weight of the Black Widow’s frayed temper, he was almost sure that his own rippling biceps were down to nothing more than a hopeful imagination. 

“Absolutely not.”

She spat each word out like they had scalded her tongue, then whirled around to begin wiping down the highchair tray. Rose toddled off to the lounge, likely in search of her toys, and Steve was overcome with a desperate longing to follow her. It was a whim he couldn’t afford to indulge if he hoped to get to the bottom of Natasha’s anger, and so he instead moved to extract the dish cloth from her fingers. It was a battle, at first; her long, slim digits digging into the fabric as though she believed she might strangle the breath from it and soothe herself in the process. Eventually, though, Natasha released the cloth to Steve’s tugging and sank back into a chair whilst he worked at the more stubborn stains. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, quietly, when a few minutes had passed. 

The tray was spotless, now – probably cleaner than it had been to begin with – and Natasha was slumped over the kitchen table with her head buried in her hands. Not a single murmur or sigh escaped her, and so Steve lowered himself into a chair and tossed the used dish cloth into the sink. 

“I’m sorry if I’m overstepping the mark, here. I’m trying to help but… Bucky always says I can come on too strong sometimes. We can do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

No answer. Not so much as a peep. Steve barely managed to prevent his leg from trembling beneath the table. Carefully, he stretched out a hand and brushed the back of his knuckle against Natasha’s wrist, letting her know he was there. He would never run, no matter how rough things got. 

“Hey, talk to me,” he encouraged in a murmur, dragging his chair closer to the woman, who had all but retreated into herself. A mass of red waves obscured her face from view, but Steve could sense the tears pooling in her eyes – and it bothered him more than Natasha could suspect. 

“You just don’t see it, Steve.”

Her words were almost eclipsed by the deep sigh she heaved, and Steve had to strain his ears to decipher them, even with his spectacular hearing. 

“I guess I don’t,” he admitted, a rush of confusion stealing his ability to think – to determine what specifically had prompted Nat’s fury and subsequent sadness. 

Finally, she looked up. Pushing her hair behind her ears, but making no move to hide the tears trickling down her cheeks, Natasha gnawed her bottom lip and stared at Steve.

“You’ve ruined your life. For me. I could never be worth that.”

Steve rocked back in his chair as though the words were a sucker punch. Indeed, he felt instantly sick down to his stomach as if he had been struck there, but Nat didn’t appear to recognise the effect her admission had on him. Eyes dropping back to the table, Natasha folded her hands there and allowed her tears to fall unchecked. Perhaps she could not have stopped them if she had wanted to. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Steve managed, his voice more a croak that he had to force past the tensed muscles in his throat. “My life is just fine, as long as you’re in it.”

Head shaking frantically, Natasha’s left hand shot out across the table and her fingers latched onto Steve’s elbow. Her nails were neat and short, but nonetheless they dug and burrowed into Steve’s skin with a ferocity that made it seem like she might tear him apart with them at any second. He allowed her to inflict the pain, mindful that he had somehow hurt her first - albeit unintentionally. 

“This house, Steve. We both know this is no safe house. This is a home. Your home. The home.”

There was a giggle proceeded by a joyful squeal from the lounge and, whilst both Avengers turned their heads towards the source of it, neither one of them made a bid to move. They sat, locked together, with Rose’s playful antics serving as the soundtrack to their mutual distress. 

Realising that he had been rumbled – that his deception had been discovered and probably deemed a treachery already – Steve bowed his head like a repentant Catholic in the confessional. 

Natasha didn’t bother to level more accusations, she merely sat still and soundless, scratching at the table with her thumbnail. She hardly cared if she left her mark. It would simply be one more aspect of Steve’s life that she had damaged with her presence. 

“You’re right,” eventually, Steve found the courage to voice the admission – though whether it had come too little, too late to make a dent in Natasha’s self-loathing remained to be seen. 

Nodding, Nat flinched, her body twitching as if she had fallen victim to the current from her own Widow’s Bites. 

“I bought the land after our talk at the compound. I decided you were right, and that – when we had defeated Thanos and brought everybody back – I would be ready for something different. Something more. Took me a while to build the house. Bucky helped a bit, when he got back.”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice? All the little touches? The rocking chair, the reading nook, the actual picket fence?”

Releasing a bitter chuckle, Natasha ripped her hand away from Steve, scorn twisting her lips into the kind of smile she had once reserved for her victims. 

“Honestly, I’m not sure I cared if you did.”

Steve’s response, as cool and truthful as it was, served as a detonator. Whilst it stamped out the remainder of Natasha’s ire, it ignited her sorrow anew, and her bottom lip trembled as she jabbed an equally shaky finger at her friend’s chest. 

“How could you, Steve? This was going to be your home; the place you would bring your family. The place where you would grow old.”

Prickled by something in her voice he couldn’t quite identify, Steve straightened in his seat and his hands furled into frustrated fists that he would never dream of aiming at the woman in front of him. 

“Don’t you think I should be the one to choose what I do with my house? Who I bring here? What purpose it serves?” He was striving for anger but falling far short, and so Steve looked away before he caved entirely to the misery in Natasha’s eyes. 

“Don’t you see? You already chose! You already knew what you wanted this place to be, and you’d started to carve that out for yourself. By bringing us here, you have forced yourself to give up everything that you dreamed of. You gave up your chance at happiness to save the world once already. I don’t want to be the reason you do it again.”

Steve scoffed, returning blazing eyes to Natasha’s face, despite his best efforts to remain the level headed participant in the conversation. He couldn’t seem to help it, though; if there was ever a woman who could stir up the best and the worst of his passions, it was Natasha Romanoff. Once, he had thought that honour reserved solely for Peggy, but both time and exorcised ghosts had proven otherwise. 

“You ever wonder why I never used the stones to go back? To be with Peggy?”

His voice was thick yet simultaneously steady, and Nat was left wondering exactly when she had become the less emotionally stable one in their partnership. That was a question for another day, though; one not quite as fraught with tension and soured by spilled secrets. 

Natasha shook her head and Steve accepted that as his cue to continue. 

“Well, truth is, I did. I went back and I knocked on her door, and I kept my word to her. I had that dance I’d promised the woman I loved.”

Eyelids fluttering closed, Nat’s hand drifted to her stomach, which clenched and rolled a rebellion that suggested she might very well see her watered down oatmeal again before the morning was through. Of course he had gone back. Of course. Margaret Carter had been the most significant person in Steve’s life – perhaps more so than Bucky - and Natasha was a fool to think that he wouldn’t have seized the opportunity. 

“I didn’t stay, though,” Steve continued, more subdued. “Thought about it, for a little while.”

“You had to give the soul stone back,” interjected Natasha, her apology lined up behind her realisation. However, before she could utter it, Steve let loose a haughty chuckle and shook his head. 

“The soul stone was nothing to do with it. Even Captain America is capable of selfish thought sometimes. If I’d have wanted to stay with Peggy, I would have. Don’t give me credit I don’t deserve.”

Nat frowned, doubting his statement, but lacking the necessary fire at that moment to challenge him on it. 

“It didn’t take me too long to realise that dance was my way of letting go. Things had finally come full circle with Peg and, faced with the choice of what to do, I knew I couldn’t stay. I have more right now than I ever imagined having during the war. There are so many people who love me – who would die for me – that I find it hard to see myself as that ‘man out of time’ anymore. If I wasn’t meant to be here… if this is not my time… then why is it here that I’m so rich?”

She couldn’t help the smile – though, small and watery – that quirked her lips, and Steve was glad when she reached back across the table to clasp his hand. He made sure to return the gentle pressure her fingers created against his skin, optimistic the gesture would leave her in no doubt as to the validity of his next claim. 

“I hoped that returning the soul stone would bring you back to me. Didn’t quite believe I’d get so lucky. But I did.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you miss out, Steve,” Natasha murmured, features seizing with the pain of such a contemplation. Steve’s actions on Vormir had indeed returned her to life, although at first it had been one she was not certain she wanted. It was empty, after all, and devoid of so many of the things that make the world worth the pain and suffering it inflicts upon you. Now, though, she had Rose, and so Nat would be forever and unfailingly grateful to Steve for what he had done. That didn’t mean she expected or wanted him to forsake anything more on her behalf, though.

Steve stared at her for the longest time in perfect, weighted silence. Then, as Natasha felt herself growing uncomfortable within its snare, Steve raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles that could only be described as reverent.

“Natasha, you still don’t see it, so I’m going to have to spell it out for you; I can’t imagine having a life that you are not the most important part of.”

All she could manage was a breath. More a gasp than anything else. Somehow, that noise was a perfect expression of her understanding and awe. He wanted her. As good and as loyal and as brave as he was, Steve Rogers was choosing her – had chosen her – stained ledger and foul origins be damned. It was so much more than the Black Widow could have hoped for, and infinitely better than she deserved. 

“I’ve already found the woman I want to spend the rest of my days with,” continued Steve, holding her gaze alongside her hand, “I’m just waiting for her to realise she’s worthy of happiness. Until she does, I can wait.”

After that, Natasha floated through the rest of their morning, Steve’s subtle but honest declaration always at the edge of her mind. She hadn’t given an inch to him, although she had certainly wanted to, and yet they had left the breakfast table with the air clear and a sense of understanding between them; this house had always been as much for her as it was for Steve, whether she felt she was entitled to it or not. She had nothing to feel guilty about, anymore. They were both right where they ought to be, and she was not playing pretend in another woman's shoes. 

All the things that had given her pause at first – the rocking chair, the room evidently intended to become a nursery, the swing in the yard – suddenly seemed far less distressing, because Steve knew already that Natasha could never give him a baby of their own. Yet, that must not have mattered to him, and he had persisted in building them a home that he was apparently adamant would one day be filled with the sound of childish laughter, anyway. Perhaps he had assumed they would foster or adopt, or maybe he simply banked on playing surrogate uncle and aunt to the other Avengers’ children as often as possible. Nat didn’t ask, she just accepted; accepted that Steve had seen her not for what she couldn’t give him, but for what she could – and decided that alone was well worth his heart. 

She agreed to the trip into town, eventually, her cheeks flushing as she asked whether Steve thought she should dye her hair beforehand. Her particular shade of red was striking and often drew attention, which was something they could stand to avoid. However, when he gently combed his fingers through her curls and observed that the colour made her look more like Rose’s mother, she found she was loathe to touch it. Instead, she settled for donning a pair of jeans, some tennis shoes, a pastel pink silk scarf, and one of Steve’s blue pinstriped shirts. She ended up looking every inch the sweet, demure, country dwelling, stay-at-home mom and wife, and Steve actually cracked up when she bounced down the stairs to show off her disguise. 

Natasha basked in his laughter as she bullied him into an argyle sweater that she intended to tease him about for the remainder of the year. She noticed that he had neglected to shave that morning and sported an impressive five o’clock shadow, but she refrained from mentioning it. She had secretly liked the beard, back in the day, and she wasn’t about to object if he had decided it was time for it to make a comeback. 

Steve switched out the licence plates on their new car, and they drove to town soon after - Nat riding in the back to keep Rose company whilst the captain played old country music on the radio. He sang along badly and at the top of his voice, eyes sparkling each time he shot a glance to the passenger seats through the mirror. The atmosphere in the car was far less tense than it had been on the drive to Larkbridge and even Rose seemed to perceive the shift in mood. Clutching Liho in her lap, she kicked her legs against her car seat in a bid to move in time to the music. At Nat’s encouragement, she flashed a beaming smile that sent a jolt of warmth through the spy’s body. When Natasha pitched forward on a whim and planted a sloppy kiss on the baby’s cheek, Rose squealed in delight rather than shy away, and a rush of love swept so fiercely through the new mother’s body that it left her toes tingling. Everything she had ever wanted most in the world was right there in that car, speeding through the Maine countryside with Miranda Lambert blaring on the stereo in the background. It was both absurd and wonderful at once, and Nat couldn’t help but smirk and shake her head as she contemplated it. 

They found the nursery store right where Steve claimed it would be, and Nat allowed him to take the lead as they swept through the door together. The bell above the support tinkled, drawing Rose’s gaze immediately, and Steve shifted her in his arms so that she could get a better look at the object of her interest. At his side, Natasha clung onto his arm, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much of her timid demeanour was an act and how much of it was a result of her fear that Rose would be snatched from them. He pressed closer to her, just in case, and was surprised but pleased when she lightly rested her head against the top of his arm. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the elusive Mr. Conway!” a friendly yet brash voice crooned, and Rose burrowed right away into Steve’s chest, finding security in what she was beginning to know. 

The woman bustled from behind the counter and came to stand in the middle of the store, her smile inviting and somehow also predatory. Nat did her best to banish the tension from her muscles, relaxing her stance so that she could convincingly sell the role of devoted mother and wife as opposed to looking like a cobra poised to strike. 

“Oh, Mrs. Gateley, I told you, please call me Joe,” Steve said through his comically wide grin, which made him resemble a Boy Scout Troup leader rather than a deadly super soldier.

“And who is this lovely young lady?” 

Mrs. Gateley was in front of Natasha and grasping both her hands with alarming familiarity before the Black Widow could blink. Steve chuckled and curled his free arm around Nat’s waist, drawing her further to him and away from the unwelcome grip of the store owner. She was harmless, really, but Steve knew that Natasha hated to be touched much of the time, and she was enough out of her comfort zone in the current situation that he didn’t want to push their luck. He had met Mr. and Mrs. Gateley a handful of times when he had visited Larkbridge to work on the house, and they were nice enough for the most part – if not somewhat nosey. However, he was positive that they had no idea who he truly was, being so far removed from city life in their rural homestead that they were barely aware of what was happening in the next state, let alone on the global stage. 

“This is my beautiful wife, Meg,” Steve supplied fluidly, jiggling the baby in his arms gently as he added, “and our little one, Rosie. The house is finally finished up so here we are, ready to make Larkbridge our forever home.”

Natasha barely managed to choke down a giggle but her amusement at least provoked in her a smile that could be mistaken as genuine. The rest of the interaction proceeded in much the same way – with Mrs. Gateley flustered and overtly friendly, and Steve talking like a reject from a Hayley Mills movie for their own secret entertainment. They would laugh about it later, she was sure, as Steve stripped out of his argyle straightjacket, and she shed her scarf and a pair of Laura’s reading glasses she had swiped from the farmhouse. Somehow, turning it all into a huge joke that only they were privy to made the experience far less daunting. For the sake of thirty minutes and a decent bed for her daughter, Natasha could play at being Steve’s wife without the pangs of either longing or guilt she had expected the deception to elicit. She tried to ignore the niggling idea that it was her sudden hope for the future that made the concept a more palatable one. 

They ended up leaving the store an hour later with not only a crib for Rose but also a matching set of nursery bedding and curtains, an uplighter, some jungle animal wall stickers, an invitation to dinner with the Gateleys, and a new companion for Liho; an enormous, black panther plush toy that Steve insisted was required for her bedroom, and which Mrs. Gateley graciously gave him fifty percent off. 

All in all, despite the rocky start, Nat came to view it as a good day. So, after Rose had been bathed, sang to, and tucked carefully into her crib for the night, Natasha set about expressing to Steve how grateful she was for the slice of normality he had unexpectedly gifted her; no matter how fleeting or transient her anxiety warned her it might prove to be.

She joined him on the porch with the bottle of red wine she had bought at the general store and two glasses, her heart fluttering nearly imperceptibly after their conversation earlier in the day. Steve sat curled on the porch swing, a blanket draped over his legs, but he wordlessly scooted over as soon as Nat pushed open the screen door. Despite the nasty voice in her mind that scolded her for it, Natasha sat next to Steve and draped herself against his chest, humming her contentment when his arm locked around her stomach. She couldn’t give him exactly what he wanted just yet - there was too much at stake for that - but she could give him more of herself than she had previously allowed, starting right there and then. Perhaps, when all her layers were eventually peeled aside, he would shy away – be repulsed and change his mind - but until then she would at least try. 

Steve accepted the glass she offered him with a mumble of thanks, his eyes fixed far into the dark distance almost as if he were scoping the land, ready to guard it at a moment’s notice. Or, maybe, as if he was guarding something far more precious entirely. 

“Thank you for today, Steve,” Natasha finally ventured after a few, hearty sips of wine to quiet her reservations. “It was exactly what I needed. I think Rose had fun, too.”

Steve’s grin lit up the porch better than the overhead bug zapper could, and he returned his eyes to the barely visible horizon a few moments later with the smile still playing across his lips. Taking a deep breath, and another gulp of wine for good measure, Natasha steeled herself for her next move. Before she could contemplate backing out, she craned her neck, leaned backwards, and pressed her lips to Steve’s in a whisper of a kiss. He returned her affection just as softly and without hesitation, and Natasha drew away with something like relief coursing through her. 

Without another word, she settled back against the broad plane of Steve’s chest, and together they watched the fireflies dance across the yard until the bottle of wine was empty, and their hearts were full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I agonised over whether to give you the kiss (although brief) at the end of this chapter or not. Then, I realised I have teased you for ten previous chapters and it would probably be mean to carry on doing that. So, here we have our first step towards Nat and Steve becoming a couple. Obviously, it's not going to happen overnight as they have a lot to focus on now with Rose, Hydra and the Red Room, but have patience and faith, and maybe it'll all work out in the end? 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and stay safe.


	12. Little Child, Be Not Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm, a soldier's story, and a spy's secret. 
> 
> WARNING for mentions of past child abuse.

Hours blurred into days and the days rolled into a week, which lapsed quietly and without much altering since the kiss on the porch. 

They didn’t talk about it. However, whenever Natasha thought of it – her boldness and the risk she had taken – her cheeks grew hot and her palms sweaty, as though she was still lost in the throes of the action itself. To Nat’s chagrin, it was a memory her mind drifted to often, which resulted in her spending much of her time in Steve’s presence as a breathless, rumpled mess. If the captain noticed the change in her then he didn’t comment on it, and they continued sharing their bed as friends rather than lovers. 

Nothing about their relationship was affected by either Steve’s declarations or Natasha’s decision to act upon them, and Nat honestly couldn’t decide if she was pleased or frustrated as a result. It became apparent the morning after the kiss that Steve was not going to push – to risk spooking her and driving her away. He was content to wait; to travel the terrain at Nat’s speed and of her volition. Meanwhile, she longed for Steve to take the decision out of her hands, and to make the first turn down a road she had scarcely travelled. A road that she, truthfully, doubted her own ability to navigate. 

Unfortunately, Steve’s strict adherence to the principles of chivalry might prove to be their undoing. Whilst he was patient and far from demanding of her time or affection, Natasha found herself increasingly exasperated. She wanted more - craved it, in fact - but lacked the courage to claim it. In the end, she chose to absorb herself in Rose, hopeful that the magnetic pull between her and Steve would prove to be a force that the captain couldn’t ignore for long.

By the end of that first week, Natasha was exhausted from a mixture of denial and motherhood, and an early spring storm was blowing in to town. Whilst Nat put Rose to bed, Steve braved the plummeting temperatures outside in order to secure the shutters and lock the car in the garage. When he returned to the house thirty minutes later, he found Rose asleep in her crib and Natasha sprawled out on their bed, her hair spread out behind her to form a vibrant coronet. It looked more like she had been knocked unconscious than drifted into restful slumber, and Steve paused a moment to smirk at the scene. He debated snapping a picture on his new cell but decided against it in the end, certain that Nat would find a way to exact vengeance if he did. 

He cleared up the kitchen - in a state of disarray thanks to Natasha preparing a traditional goulash for dinner - and then he settled on the couch to watch TV until his eyelids grew heavy enough to concede to sleep. Steve was barely a quarter of the way through a documentary about the pyramids when the wind began to pick up outside. It funnelled around the walls of the house, rattling the shutters and howling like one of the banshees in the stories his mother had recanted to him when he was a boy. The snow started soon after, whirling and whipping through the air, tousled by the wind on its way down to the ground. It was another half hour before the overhead lights stuttered then blinked out, along with the TV. Suddenly, Steve wished with all his heart that he had built his home in Florida, instead. 

Deciding that it was probably better to admit defeat and retire for the evening, Steve fumbled his way upstairs and across the landing to the master bedroom. He was almost there when the hallway was lit up by a flash of brilliant blue that he first feared belonged to the beam of a helicopter searchlight. He froze, mouth dry, and that was when the first clap of thunder shook the house down to its foundations. The Red Room had not found them, after all, Steve realised with relief surging into his bones – they had simply fallen victim to the tempestuous Maine weather. 

Whilst Steve had experienced many a snow storm in his time and travels with S.H.I.E.L.D., he had only ever read about thundersnow. It was a rare phenomenon, from what he understood, and, despite the disturbance to his evening and his electricity supply, he couldn’t help but feel privileged to witness it first-hand. It was a feeling that dwindled when a second peal of thunder brought with it a cry from the nursery. Rose was dragged fully into consciousness by a sheet of lightning casting an eerie glow on the walls that almost unnerved Steve himself. 

The baby’s whine escalated into a powerful scream that left the captain feeling like his heart was being ripped from his chest. His socks sent him sliding across the floorboards, concern making him clumsy as he swiped for the door handle and missed. Eventually, Steve burst into the nursery, where he found Rose standing in her crib with tears streaming from her eyes and her mouth open in a ceaseless shriek. He wasted no time in gathering her into his arms, distraught at the panic that crashed across her features when the thunder growled again. She had spent most of her life locked away in an underground facility and so the nuances of the weather were as new to her as most other things. It was clear that she was terrified beyond measure. 

Steve cradled the child to his chest and rubbed circles across her back. He had watched Natasha do the same thing countless times, always with success, and yet Rose was held so tight in the grip of fear that nothing could calm her. She wailed and thrashed, fists slamming against Steve’s shoulder as the weather continued its assault on the house – unconcerned by its effect on the tiny child. 

“Hush, Rosie, it’s okay,” Steve managed in a whisper. His stomach clenched as Rose hiccupped and coughed through another round of screams, provoked by a boom that quaked the walls. 

Steve didn’t dare approach the window to check how the storm was progressing, certain that Rose would rather fling herself from his arms than draw so close to the danger. She was strong, too, and he didn’t doubt her ability to free herself from his grip if he didn’t manage to soothe her, and soon. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he promised her, his lips brushing first her forehead then her cheek. “I won’t let anything hurt you, I swear.”

Rose stilled for a second, perhaps assured by the conviction in his tone rather than the words she couldn’t understand, and Steve flashed her a smile he hoped would convey what speech could not; she was safe with him - always. The moment of calm splintered and shattered with the violent resurgence of the thunder. Rose went stiff in his arms and her cries were all that filled the space until the next deafening crack resounded, fighting for dominance. 

Steve began to hum, his mind scrambling to provide him lyrics to accompany the tune, but it turned out that he needn’t have bothered. His musical abilities were non-existent and, where Natasha’s voice was soft and enchanting, his attempts at singing resembled the pained yowls of a dying cat. Rose wept harder and Steve really couldn’t blame her.   
He was on the verge of admitting defeat and fetching Natasha when something wholly unexpected happened, leaving him standing breathless in wonderment in the centre of the nursery as the storm worsened. With her bottom lip trembling, Rose lifted a hand to Steve’s face and rested it against his jaw, where the beginnings of his beard were growing in thick.

“Da…” Rose wailed miserably, wet eyes glistening. She patted Steve’s face, fingers gentle but insistent as she repeated her plea, “Dadada!”

It might have meant nothing. It could simply have been the random babblings of a baby petrified by a storm. That’s likely what it was. And yet, to Steve, it was everything.   
His breath left him, stolen by the combination of his surprise and joy, and Steve had to sink down into the rocker so that he and Rose didn’t end up in a heap on the floor. 

“What did you say, sweetheart?” 

His excitement was obvious but the time for it had passed, and Rose only burrowed deep into his chest, spluttering more sobs. 

Resolve strengthened, Steve began to tip back and forth in the chair – a thrift store find that he had once felt silly for purchasing on a whim. At the time, logic had reminded him that, even if he managed to convince Natasha of his feelings for her, they would never – could never – be blessed with children. Thus, his purchase was doomed to be a redundant one. And yet Steve had forked over his fifty bucks and carted that solid, heavy, oak chair back home regardless because, if there was one thing that Captain America had always refused to relinquish, it was hope. 

“You want to hear a story, Rosie, huh?”

Steve paused to press another kiss to Rose’s temple and she shifted closer, soothed by his affection. 

“When I was a little boy I was scared of storms, too.” A fleeting smile graced his lips at the remembrance of his childhood. “It was just me and my ma so, whenever I was afraid, I would climb out of my bed and sneak into hers. I wasn’t supposed to. People had all sorts of strange ideas back then about what boys and men should and shouldn’t do. Her friends told her it would make me weak… weaker than I already was, I guess, and nobody wanted a son who had a feeble mind to match his feeble body.”

Although she couldn’t possibly understand, Rose quieted, looking for all the world as though she was hanging off Steve’s every word. She peered up into his face and her fingers clenched around his t-shirt. She settled with her stomach flush against his and Steve gifted her a smile, although Rose was too mired in fear to return it. Instead, she laid her cheek upon his chest and blew out a shaky breath. 

“But,” Steve continued, lowering his voice to a purr to distract her from the gale that lashed the windowpane, “my ma was never like other people. She didn’t see weakness as something we should avoid. My ma was smart, Rosie. She knew that you can’t hide your own weakness; you have to stare it in the face… really see it.”

Rose cooed and Steve couldn’t help but chuckle at the well-timed interruption. It was as though she was encouraging him to continue, perhaps entranced by the way his voice rumbled through his chest. She barely seemed to notice the thunder or lightning anymore, and Steve marvelled at the change in her; from a wild, squalling force of nature to a placid infant growing sleepy and limp in his lap. 

“This one night, when I was six, there was a terrible storm. The power went out for blocks, like tonight. I ran to my ma’s bed, hoping I could creep in without her waking up, cos I thought she’d make me go back to my room and I didn’t want to be alone.”

Her thumb found its way to her mouth and hovered over her lips before Rose sucked it in between her front teeth. 

“She woke up to me trembling next to her.”

Steve broke off to grin at the clear memory of his mother, dressed in her nightgown with her hair in rags, looking at him through eyes that were bleary with exhaustion. There was so little of her left in his mind now, thanks to the thievery of the ice and the decades, and so he was prone to hanging on hard to each shred of her that came back to him. 

“But she didn’t make me leave. Instead, she pulled me close and she told me not to mind the storm; that it was only the angels crying. Well, I wanted to know what could possibly make the angels so sad, because that had to be the most terrible thing in the world and so maybe I was right to be afraid. But do you know what my ma said to me, Rosie? She said, ‘they cry because they’re happy, Steven, and those tears water this beautiful earth. Without them, nothing could thrive or grow – not the flowers or the trees, nor the crops and the cattle, or even the little boys and little girls.’”

Rose lifted her head, flashing Steve a look with wide, intelligent eyes. It was as if she was evaluating his story, making her mind up regarding its validity, just as her mother might. Steve held her gaze and Rose played with the hem of his shirt whilst she waited for the end of the tale.

“Storms are a good thing. They can be loud sometimes, though, and that’s scary when we’re small. But happiness needs to be loud, Rose. That way, it can drown out all the sorrow in the world.”

Rose dropped her head back to Steve’s shoulder, puffing a sigh from her lips that was both soft and half content. Although she shuddered with the next clap of thunder, her body relaxed against Steve’s until she gradually melted boneless to his chest, fatigue beginning to override any residual fear left in her. 

Steve lowered his voice to a whisper, breath tickling the curve of Rose’s earlobe, causing her to squirm as he spoke. 

“I’m not scared of thunder and lightning, now. When we grow up, no matter how big and strong we get, it’s a different kind of storm we fear.”

The thunder receded after that, and Steve silently counted the seconds between each grumble whilst his little companion dozed in the circle of his arms. All too soon, a voice from the shadows that lurked in the hall startled Steve, who barely managed to control his reaction. Rose grunted in her sleep at the disturbance but didn’t reawaken, and relief wrapped around the captain like an embrace.

“I liked your story,” Natasha muttered, stealing into the nursery from the darkness. “Your mother sounds like a special woman.”

“She was,” Steve replied, eyes on Nat as she drifted to the window and parted the curtains with one hand. “I’m grateful for every second I had with her but… no matter how long we get, it never seems to be enough.”

Natasha hummed, eyes roving the yard for a while before she pulled the drapes tight together and turned back to face Steve. 

“I never knew my mother. Or my father. If there was a record of how I ended up in the Red Room then I never found it.”

An apology froze on Steve’s lips, seeming both inadequate and unnecessary at the same time. Instead, he settled on a simple observation.

“I was lucky. I’ll never forget that much.”

The smile Natasha bestowed upon him was wobbly, and filled with such sadness that it painted her features in their entirety.

“In Russia, when I was a child, we would have the worst storms. The compound I grew up in was very old, and the dormitories were so dilapidated it was a miracle that the roof didn’t come down on our heads.”

She paused in her revelation, tenting her fingers in front of her face as she appeared to deliberate over something. Eventually, she lowered her hands to her sides, squared her shoulders, and met Steve’s gaze head on. There was a raw look in her eyes, and Steve hardly dared to breathe as he awaited the unfolding of another undoubtedly grim fairy-tale from the Black Widow’s past. 

“I think I was five. Smaller than a lot of the other girls but eager to prove myself. I had only just that week been moved from what the staff called ‘the nursery’.”

A shudder rippled through her with such ferocity that not even the darkness could conceal it. Steve sat straighter, pressing the base of his back into the slats of the rocking chair and welcoming the dull ache. 

“I managed not to cry for the longest time,” Natasha said, head tipped, voice faraway – mind somewhere else entirely. “Some of the older girls had already learned how to slip their restraints. They decided to have some fun… to play with me.”

“Nat…” Steve breathed out, his eyes flashing closed for the briefest of moments as visions of a child not too dissimilar to the one cuddled in his arms flashed through his mind. 

“Madam B. would tell us stories about the wolves that roamed the forest, ready to gobble up the little girls who dared to encroach on their territory. I was so scared of those stories, I would have nightmares about beasts with yellow eyes crashing through the windows and tearing me in half. It was years before I realised it was another manipulation – a way to dissuade us from attempting to escape.”

It was the most difficult thing Steve had ever done to remain quiet in that moment; to not give in to his overwhelming urge to rush from the chair and gather Natasha into his arms - snug and safe next to her daughter, where she belonged. He battled the impulse like it was his worst foe, hating the necessity of it yet certain that Natasha would not continue if he moved so much as a millimetre. They said talking could be cathartic, and Nat did so little of it that Steve was sure he didn’t wish to do anything that would prevent her from opening up. If she had decided that it was finally time for him to see her – all of her, including the parts that brought her most shame – then he would bite his cheeks, still his restless feet, and steal himself for whatever was to come. He would be marble, just like Natasha had been since she was slip of a girl.

“I think it was Mikhaila that started it. I was given the bed that had belonged to her dead sister, Luiza, and she hated me for it. So, one night, she removed her restraints, slipped under my bed so quietly that I didn’t have a hope of hearing, and then she waited for the breaks between the thunder before she started to howl.”

Steve scowled but said nothing. The fingers of his right hand continued to rub Rose’s back through the fabric of her onesie and the child slept on, protected from her mother’s horrific recount. 

“I buried my face in the pillow so they couldn’t hear me cry but, when Mikhaila reached from under the bed and grabbed my ankle, I screamed so loudly that the guards came running, thinking we had been infiltrated. By the time they arrived in the dorm, Mikhaila was back in her bed like nothing had happened and I had pissed mine. They stripped me off and dragged me out into the rain… I was dirty and I needed to be clean… Twenty lashes, a night in the coal cellar, and two days without food.”

“Natasha…” Steve repeated, choking on her name and his own burning hatred for her abusers. 

“I wish I could say I was never afraid again but… well, that would be a lie…” Natasha’s smile was ethereal in the moonlight, her face pallid and her eyes so large that they simmered like burning coals in the dark. “I learned how to hide it, and I’ve been hiding it ever since.”

“You don’t have to hide it anymore,” insisted Steve around the lump in his throat, “you never have to hide anything from me.”

Natasha shook her head – a small, controlled gesture which could not mask the gleam of unshed tears pooled above her lower lids. 

“I’m afraid now, Steve. More afraid than I think I’ve ever been in my life because those wolves are finally real, and they’re coming.”

Slowly, Nat’s eyes flashed to Rose, who wriggled in Steve’s grasp as though she was unconsciously aware of the attention focussed upon her. 

“They’re coming for her… and I don’t know that I’m strong enough to stop them.”

Steve rose from the chair fluidly, shifting Rose’s body as he moved so as not to jostle her. The rocker continued to sway and creak with the loss of his weight, but Steve drew away from it quickly until he stood in front of Natasha, so close that they were almost toe to toe. Then, he pressed the babe into her arms and watched as she adjusted the child with such practiced attentiveness that it was scarcely conceivable that she had been a mother for weeks as opposed to years. When Rose was settled, a smile curving her lips in sleep, Steve leaned forwards and cupped Natasha’s face in his hands. She closed her eyes and a single tear leaked from beneath the fan of her auburn lashes. Steve caught it with the pad of his thumb and shucked it aside, so much determination filling him that he quivered from head to foot with it. 

“We are strong enough together, Natasha. Believe that.”

“But…” 

“No. I am more sorry than you will ever understand that you went through all that… that the Red Room was your life for so many years… but I will die before I will let it be hers, and so would you.”

“I can’t ask you to risk your life for us.”

“You haven’t. You’re not. It’s my life, Tasha, and so I can give it as I choose, and I choose you and Rose. I choose the three of us, together, for as long as you want it to be that way.”

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip and her insecurity bled into every line and curve of her features – so easy for Steve to read that he couldn’t help but seek to extinguish it. He darted forwards, and his lips were upon hers before either registered the development. The kiss was so different from the one before it – more frenzied, spurred on by desperation and worry, yet no less an expression of the soldier’s adoration for the spider. When they fell apart, both panting and with Rose wedged between their chests, Steve’s fingers remained laced through the roots of Nat’s hair and his palm rested on the nape of her neck. 

“I want that… I want that always,” she whispered and, emboldened, she stretched up on her toes to seal his lips with her own once more. 

They both pressed kisses to Rose’s temples, into the line of her hair, and over her still-tear-damp cheeks before Natasha laid her back in her crib. Steve tucked the blankets underneath her armpits whilst Nat laid Liho by her daughter’s side in easy reach, and then the couple tiptoed from the nursery with their fingers interlaced and Natasha’s head resting on Steve’s bicep.

Some might say that it was perhaps far too early to define this thing between them. Others would call it a dysfunctional relationship in its infancy, which had little to no hope of ever flourishing into more. Worse still, there were those that would openly decry what existed between the captain and the widow, labelling it a treachery and a betrayal of Steve’s country. He could not care about that because, to acknowledge their opinions to the slightest degree would certainly be a treachery and a betrayal of his heart. For him, it was Natasha. It had been Natasha for so long that he had forgotten a time when he had contemplated anything else. And, maybe she was right – she certainly had a knack for it – maybe the wolves were coming; wild, relentless, ready to devour anyone that stood in the path of their prey. 

Let them, Steve resolved, let them gnash their teeth and slash with their steel claws and thrust their muzzles to the sky to howl their fury. The captain would not bend, he would not break, he would not concede. Natasha was the sword, he was the shield, and Rose was everything that made the battle worthwhile. 

Even wolves could fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Happy New Year, and I hope everyone is safe and well! I'm truly sorry about the lack of an update until this point. I have recently started a new job and it's been hectic what with home learning, lockdown, and work at 7 am most days. I hope this chapter makes up for my absence a little! 
> 
> So, here we learn about both Steve and Natasha's pasts, plus we see the stark differences in how they were raised. We also see our favourite Avengers growing closer, and somewhat braver. It's about time, right? I do know where I am going with this story and I just hope you're enjoying the ride. The drama is going to be ramping up in the coming chapters, forming the basis of our main storyline. 
> 
> I suppose now one of the main questions you may have is, did Rose really call Steve 'Dada'? The answer is, no, sorry. Babies babble and the 'dadada' sound is one of the easiest to form. However, hearing just the possibility of it made Steve realise even more what he could have with Nat and Rose, and how very much he wants it. 
> 
> The title of this chapter is taken from 'Lullaby for a Stormy Night' by Vienna Teng, which is one of many songs I used to sing to my babies when they were small. The lyrics were heavy inspiration for Steve's mom's story.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations
> 
> Приезжать = come  
> пойти с ним = go with him
> 
> Please note, I do not speak Russian, I used Google Translate, which might have been a terrible idea. My apologies for any errors!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy in lockdown/ quarantine. I am currently sequestered away with four children so pray for me/ send wine/ please be patient waiting for updates, should you wish to read them. 
> 
> Any errors in this chapter are my own as this is un-Beta'd.


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